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I 

THE LONGDENS 

BY 

D. R. CROMPTON N 



DORRANCE & COMPANY 
Publishers Philadelphia 




COPYRIGHT 1924 
DORRANCE & COMPANY INC 



.CT2.12. 





r% 

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AME.RICA 

MAR 26*24 1 

©C1A777705 


TO MY MOTHER 



CONTENTS 


Chapter Page 

I The Mountains . 1 

II Playmates . 13 

III The Longdens . 21 

IV A Crisis . 29 

V Going Away . 34 

VI Breaking Home Ties. 42 

VII University Life. 55 

VIII Dudley Meets a Stranger. 62 

IX Hunting a Job. 70 

X A Game of Football. 79 

XI The Acid Test. 84 

XII Disappointments . 92 

XIII College Life . 102 

XIV Dudley and Anna. 110 

XV Those Troublesome Eeporters. 119 

XVI Mrs. Longden . 131 

XVII Vacation Days. 139 

XVIII Stranded . 145 

XIX Woman Has Her Way. 155 

XX Hiram Longden . 160 

XXI The Printer’s Union. 173 

XXII The Proposed Strike. 182 

XXIII Mr. Conkling and Eobert. 195 

XXIV A Dinner Party. 205 

XXV Grace and Her Father. 215 

XXVI Dudley Is Invited. 223 

XXVII The Fourth of July. 229 

XXVIII A Crisis . 238 

XXIX An Unhonored Check. 244 

XXX Dudley’s Diagnosis . 255 

XXXI Strategy . 260 

XXXII Helen and Grace and Dudley and Julia. 266 

XXXIII Untangling the Skein. 270 

XXXIV “All’s Well That Ends Well”. 278 



























































THE LONGDENS 

I 

The Mountains 

All day long he had laboriously made his way over the dusty, 
undulating foothills. The Rocky Mountains in all their 
majesty were before him. To see them had been the dream 
of his youth. 

Smoke was leisurely curling from a hut on the mountain 
side. This humble abode interested Robert Tadmore more 
than the sublimity of The Rockies—he was footsore, tired, and 
hungry. He quickened his pace. 

Mr. Tadmore had come from the great state of Ohio. He 
had become tired of tilling his father’s worn-out acres, and 
had decided to see the great, boundless West. He was only a 
lad of seventeen, but like all boys of immature years, he 
longed for adventure. He thought it would be great sport to 
“rough it,” but, many, many times since, he had longed for 
home and his mother’s caresses—had longed to be on the old, 
clay farm again in south-eastern Ohio. He had become tired of 
the shifting, uncertain, unsettled life of travel; in fact, his 
roaming propensity had been satisfied. He had ridden freight 
trains so often and so much, and he had walked so far that 
he was jaded—every atom of his being was crying out for 
food and rest and shelter and peace and quiet. 

The cabin was only a little way up the mountain side, far, 
far below the timber-line. Robert was fast approaching it. 
He could plainly see a maiden sitting in the doorway. A 
thoroughbred shepherd dog was lying prone upon the ground 
at her feet with his muzzle resting snugly between his fore 
legs. He growled wickedly as Robert approached, but the 
girl, in a gentle, but emphatic voice, commanded as she rose: 

“Shep!” 

Shep resented the rebuke and hastily retreated to the rear 
of the cabin. Robert regarded the damsel with more than 

7 


8 


THE LONGDENS 


passing interest. She was simply attired, and had an innocent 
countenance, noble in its purity. Her name was Julia Nansen. 
She had just reached the bloom of youth and must have been 
about Robert’s age. Modesty and innocence robed her person 
like a cloth of gold. Her form was spare, but not frail; 
willowy, but not tall. She was poorly clad, but she was not 
ashamed; she was a child of poverty, but she did not murmur, 
for she had been taught to regard the fineries of dress as the 
shriveled fruit of vanity. A plain calico wrapper reached to 
the ground, and moccasins made of the hide of the mountain 
lion covered her feet. Her brown hair was combed straight 
back and hung down her back in long braids. Her complexion 
was fair, her cheeks were full, and they were tinted with the 
freshness of the mountains. Her voice was as gentle as a 
snowflake, her eyes were as brown as the oak leaves, her 
countenance was as pure as an apple blossom. 

Robert addressed Julia abruptly: 

“Greetings to you, Miss—I’m from Ohio and I’m hungry.” 

“Why then have you come here?” she asked. 

“To see the mountains and get away from my father’s 
‘hard-scrabble’ farm,” answered Robert. 

“Maybe you could do worse.” 

“Yes, I guess I could; in fact, I concluded several days 
since that I could do worse. How long have you lived here?” 

“All my life,” said Julia. 

“You like it?” he asked. 

“I’ve never knowed anything different.” 

“You went to school here?” he questioned further. 

“My mother teached me,” replied the girl proudly. 

“Did I tell you that I was hungry?” 

“I believe you did.” 

“Allow me to say farther that I have the hungry trembles; 
in truth, every atom of my being is crying out for food,” he 
continued. 

“We have got some parched corn,” she replied. 

“I like bread and butter and coffee better,” he said smiling. 

“We may have some sassafras tea and some hominy.” 

“Anything ’ll do—I’m starving, I tell you. I’m not a 
tramp; I’m an honorable chap—I’m willing to work for you 
to pay.” 

Julia scrutinized the young man keenly and replied inno¬ 
cently : 


THE MOUNTAINS 


9 


“I’ll speak to father—he’s in the house.” 

“Thank you, but don’t be long, Miss.” 

Mr. Nansen readily consented. Hospitality does not bloom 
in the cities, it unfolds in the out-of-the-way places, in the 
eddies and the sequestered nooks along the stream of life. Julia 
was pleased, and with dignity and gentleness she invited the 
wayfarer into their home, saying: 

“You may come in.” 

Robert entered without ceremony and without delay. He 
forthwith seated himself, after which he was quickly served 
by Julia. He ate ravenously. Julia innocently took a chair 
near the youthful adventurer, and not only watched his every 
action, but she pondered every word that he spoke. After he 
had eaten some two or three moments, Robert spoke with 
interest: 

“You have a cozy little cabin.” 

“It suits our needs very well,” replied the father who was 
regarding the young man eagerly. 

“It has two rooms'?” 

“You are right,” agreed the older man. 

“Is there any game in these parts'?” asked Robert. 

“Considerable bear and mountain lion,” said Nansen quietly. 

“How long have you lived here?” asked Robert. 

“Twenty years, sir.” 

“Indeed! and you like it?” 

“Yes, we like it—we’re compelled to like it; in truth, we’re 
not able to get enough money together to get away,” said the 
mountaineer slowly. 

“You came from—?” 

“Kentucky. And you came from Ohio, I believe you said.” 

“Yes, I’m from the border lands of the coal-mining region 
in south-eastern Ohio. Father hasn’t made enough money in 
ten years to buy a sack of chocolates.” 

“Your country must be some kin to this,” mused Nansen. 

“Anyway, I’d like to stay here a few days—until I get 
rested.” 

“You may, and welcome; if you do as we do and eat what 
we eat.” 

“I want to work for my board—I have no money,” said 
Robert. 

“Very well, but we will decide what your work will be 
when you are rested,” 


10 


THE LONGDENS 


“You cultivate some land?” 

“Just a patch,” said Nansen. 

“You raise—?” 

“Corn, beans, and pumpkins. The Indians, you know, were 
raising these unheard-of products when Christopher Columbus 
discovered America,” explained his host. 

After a while the two gentlemen, followed by Julia, stepped 
outside the cabin to view the mountains. Few wayfarers had 
ever stopped here, so Julia was intensely interested in this one. 
It was an event of a lifetime. She had never before met 
a young man who was so full of vivacity, who stirred her 
being so completely, and set her heart in such wild com¬ 
motion. She was experiencing a new thrill, a strange but 
powerful emotion. 

Nor was Robert blind to Julia’s admiring glances. There 
was something about the maiden’s rustic, simple attire and 
modest innocence that stirred the depths of his being. In 
truth, the sublimity of the mountains did not appeal to him so 
forcibly as the simple beauty of Julia Nansen. 

It was not long until there were unmistakable evidences 
that Robert Tadmore was welcome to this mountain home, and 
he knew it. So he remained with this simple-hearted, hos¬ 
pitable family for an indeterminate period. He passed the 
time in hunting game, clearing the forest, tilling the soil, and 
living the simple life. Julia was Robert’s constant companion. 
She helped him chase the antelope and cope with the cunning 
of the grizzly; she helped him clear the undergrowth that 
was near their cabin door; she helped him sow, and she 
helped him reap. The smoke from the clearing, the aroma 
from the fresh-plowed ground, the refreshing sleep which 
always follows arduous toil, and the charm of the gentleness 
of Julia’s presence, all these gave Robert Tadmore’s life a 
new goal and work a new meaning. Julia’s simple, honest 
ways commanded his respect, his love, his adoration. 

Soon they were married. As heretofore, she was his obedi¬ 
ent helper. She gladly did his work for him. To her it was a 
willing and delightful service. She saw to it that he always 
got the choicest piece of game, the coldest and most refreshing 
mugs of milk, the nicest pieces of corn bread. She was, in 
truth, his helpmate, his devoted wife, his ministering angel. 

Soon a year had passed, but time had not lessened Julia’s 
love for her husband. Undeniably, she was intensely happy. 


THE MOUNTAINS 


11 


A babe nestled close to her bosom, and she loved it as she 
loved her husband. 

It was June. All of the mountain creation was instinct with 
new life. The trio was assembled in the dooryard. Father and 
mother were laughing, and the babe was cooing. The wars of 
Europe, the chaos of Russia, the disarmament of nations were 
insignificant happenings, in Julia’s mind, compared to the 
incidents in her lover’s life. She was intensely interested in 
everything that he did, in every word that he spoke, in every 
wish that he made. 

The merry mountain stream went dancing along over its 
pebbly bed not many rods distant from the Nansen cabin 
door; but it was not more happy than the Tadmore family. 
The robins were joyfully building their nests in the dooryard, 
but housekeeping was not more delightful to them than to 
Julia. In truth, life was full of hope, full of joy, full of 
ecstasy—it was heaven itself. 

Suddenly a horseman drew rein in front of the mountain 
home. He had in his hand a telegram for Robert Tadmore. It 
was from Waterloo, Ohio, the village nearest his father’s farm. 
Robert impatiently tore the envelope open and read: 

“Come at once. Father is critically ill. The good luck of find¬ 
ing coal on our farm was too much. 

“Mother.” 

Robert read it and re-read it after which he read it to 
Julia. She wept as she queried: 

“And must you go, Robert?” 

“It is my duty, Julia.” 

“I’ll be so lonesome,” she said. 

“I’ll be back in a few days, Julia. No, it will not be very 
long, dear,” he replied. 

“You’ll be back by the time the goldenrod’s in bloom?” she 
asked. 

“I think so—anyway, by the time the hickory nuts begin to 
fall.” 

Preparations were hastily made for Robert’s departure. Mr. 
Nansen decided to accompany him to the nearest station some 
forty miles away. They went on horseback. Robert kissed 
mother and child a fond goodby before he mounted. Julia wept 


12 


THE LONGDENS 


convulsively. Scalding tears coursed down her youthful cheeks 
as she said with unbelievable devotion: 

“Robert dear, baby and I will come to this boulder every 
morning and every evening to watch and wait for you, and to 
meet you when you return.” 

“Julia, you’re a devoted wife,” said her husband with deep 
feeling. 

“Robert, every day I’ll pray for you that no harm may come 
to you, that you may come back to us safe and well.” 

“Julia, above all things, take good care of ‘Junior.’ ” 

“I will, Robert, for your sake and for my sake,” she 
promised. 

“Goodby, dearest girl.” 

“God bless you, Robert, dear.” 

The horseman rode away. Julia was very sad. She sat upon 
the boulder and eagerly watched her disappearing husband. 
Each time that he looked back she waved her kerchief franti¬ 
cally and lovingly. Soon Robert was gone—soon he, who was 
more to her than all the gold in all the world, was gone. To 
her the sun had gone down and darkness was everywhere. 
The mountain stream sang its lullaby to her in its vain en¬ 
deavor to drown the ocean of sorrow that welled up in her 
heart. After a while she tried to console herself by addressing 
her babe: 

“Baby! daddy, dear daddy, good daddy’s gone. We’ll be 
awfully lonesome, baby dear, until our daddy comes back. 
But he’s coming back before the hickory nuts fall; so go to 
sleep, baby dear, and dream of daddy, dear daddy, good daddy, 
dear.” 


II 


Playmates 

A year passed. The Tadmore estate proved to be very 
valuable. The coal mine developed into a very profitable one, 
but the joy incident to the good luck resulted in the father’s 
death, which in a short while was followed by the accidental 
demise of the mother. The ways of providence are not only 
devious and mysterious, but they are beyond human under¬ 
standing. The entire Tadmore estate fell into the hands of 
Robert, now a lad of only eighteen. Instead of going back 
to the mountains to his young wife and child, he had gone to 
college nine months before. His ideals of life had changed. 
Wealth had brought its temptations. Wearing fine clothes 
and chasing the bubbles of pleasure had become his all- 
consuming desire. 

Robert’s first year at Belmont had been uneventful, except 
that he had been busy—busy learning fraternity ways, busy 
studying the demands of college ethics, busy becoming ac¬ 
quainted with the manners, customs and social innovations of 
university life. It was June again. The college year was 
ended. After commencement Robert returned to Waterloo, the 
village of his boyhood. He remembered it as a thriving 
village of no mean proportions, but when he alighted from the 
train and beheld the straggling line-up of weatherbeaten, 
dilapidated, frame buildings that fringed the muddy, main 
street, he was depressingly disappointed and sadly dis¬ 
illusioned. During his youth it appeared to him to be a 
city of many wonders; but the village of his boyhood now 
seemed dwarfed, and the landscape drab. In truth, it did 
not seem worth while. Everything had lost its charm, its 
bigness, its glamour. Even the once magnanimous shopkeepers 
now appeared to be very common and very crude fellows, while 
the coal mine itself seemed small and inconsequential. As a 
result Robert was depressed, dejected, sad. 

He was carelessly sauntering up and down the village street 
contemplating the glories of the past and living over again 

13 


14 


THE LONGDENS 


the happenings of his boyhood, when he suddenly spied Dudley 
Longden, a schoolmate and erstwhile neighbor. They had been 
boyhood chums. They had grown up together and had played 
together during childhood’s golden hours. The Longden farm 
joined the Tadmore farm on the west. Robert stopped sud¬ 
denly and shouted jovially across the street to Dudley: 

“Hello there, ‘Dud’ Longden!” 

“Why, it’s ‘Bob’—‘Bob’ Tadmore —wie geht es, old scout 1 ? 
I see you’re as jolly as ever,” replied Dudley cordially as he, 
accoutered in his faded, patched overalls, started across the 
dirty, mud street to greet his chum and schoolmate. 

“Well, you seem to be the same Dudley that I left behind 
me last September; the same kindly, clever, genial fellow 
dressed in the same faded overalls, wearing the same tattered 
straw hat that you did when I left you,” responded Robert 
who was dressed in the pink of fashion. 

“Yes, I’m just the same, Bob; but, someway, you have 
changed. Yes, you are different—you are so much more 
critical, so much less considerate, so much more sarcastic; in 
fact, ‘Bob,’ pardon me, but you’re a little overbearing and your 
ways nettle me,” said Dudley frankly. 

“If you do not respect yourself, Dudley, no one else will,” 
replied Robert. 

“True, but your speech has a sting to it—it bites, it wounds, 
it hurts.” 

“The world is cold-blooded, why should I not be?” 

“Formerly, Bob, you were kind and charitable and consider¬ 
ate, and I liked you; but now your arrogance makes me un¬ 
comfortable. What is the cause of this change? Money? 
Your coal mine? Or a few days of college?” 

“Am I not a college sophomore? Am I not on the ’varsity 
nine and the ’varsity eleven? Do not the students and even 
the faculty speak my name with respect, enthusiasm?” 
answered Robert triumphantly. 

“They honor athletes at college ?” questioned Dudley humbly. 

“Honor them? They worship them.” 

“I thought scholarship was the goal.” 

“Dudley, your ignorance astonishes me. Why, you don’t 
even know what lies behind the hills yonder. Your life is like 
that of a bug under a board. You’re no more than a family 
horse. I’d rather be a ‘trusty’ in a penitentiary than you—he 
has more liberty and more privileges,” said Bob scathingly. 


PLAYMATES 


15 


“Now, Robert, your egotism and your arrogance are 
again—.” 

“Dudley, why not? Fm in the great, busy, hustling social 
whirl where perfectly dressed gentlemen mingle with beauti¬ 
fully gowned women. But what are you, Dudley? What can 
you hope to be? You go to bed so you can get up and plow 
corn; so you can go to bed and get up and plow corn; so you 
can get up and plow more corn. You travel in a circle—how 
can you expect to get anywhere? How do you expect ever to 
be anybody? A horse in a treadmill lives just that sort of 
life.” 

“Robert, we had a family horse once whose friendship I 
prized—yes, and I prized it next to my mother, too. I’d like 
to be as honest, as true, as trustworthy as that family driving- 
horse. He always did an honest day’s work; he always stood 
where we left him; he always pulled more than his share of 
the load, and if he doesn’t go to heaven—” 

“Ha! ha! ha! how silly! Horse heaven! The idea! Crazy! 
Yes, I guess it’s really true that one is born every minute,” 
ehuckled Robert. 

“That domineering spirit of yours—maybe it’s Mr. Hyde— 
is again driving the chariot. Robert, I have feelings. A man 
doesn’t need to be educated to have sensibilities that bleed 
and pain him when they are bruised and trampled upon.” 

“Dudley, you’re back-woodsy—that’s what I’ve been trying 
to tell you, and that’s what I’m trying to get you away from.” 

“Your frankness is certainly remarkable, Robert Tadmore.” 

“To be on the football team is the ambiton of every student, 
but many are called while few are chosen.” 

“Then scholarship counts for nothing at your school?” 

“Listen! In my fraternity is a bookworm. He’s a real 
student. He can reel off Latin and Greek translations by the 
yard. Frequently he corrects the professors because he knows, 
but socially he is a stick and athletically he is a nonentity. 
He’s never invited to any of the social functions—in fact he’s 
considered a bore, a blank cartridge, a Keifer Pear.” 

“Just the same he’s respected for what he knows.” 

“On the contrary the upper strata of girls do not speak 
to him; they ignore him, they laugh at him.” 

“That’s snobbery. All colleges are not that way,” asserted 
Dudley. 


16 


THE LONGDENS 


“On the contrary all the world is just that way,” declared 

“Girls do lots of things that they regret in after life. They 
pick a rose and get a thorn.” 

“You may have some inside information that I don t know 
about, but I have never yet heard of the girl that regretted 
that she refused to tickle the fellow under the chin that wore 
celluloid collars and baggy trousers.” 

“Do you really think that clothes make the man?” 

“I most assuredly do. Appearances count for everything 
in this world.” 

“I don’t believe it.” 

“Don’t the girls in the department stores spend every cent 
that they make at the beauty parlor? Certainly; they spend 
all the money they can get their fingers on for clothes and 
face powders. Good looks are their stock in trade, fine 
clothes their show window. Besides, mark this, Dudley, they’ll 
not speak to any young fellow who is not well groomed.” 
“Robert, you astonish me.” 

“I do? Then listen to this. There are hundreds and hun¬ 
dreds of people who mortgage their farms, their homes, and 
even their souls that they may be able to buy an auto. The 
desire to be in the procession is inborn. Neither do they 
buy a small car—never. It’s got to do sixty miles an hour; 
it’s got to have dash and speed, a starter, a searchlight and 
cord tires.” 

“Such a man is crazy,” asserted Dudley. 

“The first time that you go to a city dressed in a slouch 
hat and faded overalls, try to speak to some folks whom you 
have known. If you don’t get snubbed I’ll buy you a new 
suit of clothes. They’ll simply not see you; no, they’ll be 
interested in the scenery on the opposite side of the street.” 

“I do not deny that there are snobs in the world, but I assert 
that there are ten sensible people to every snob.” 

“Reverse it, friend Dudley, and then you’ll have it right.” 
“Many pumpkins look better than honeydew melons, but 
they’re not; and many good-looking apples are rotten at the 
core.” 

“True, nevertheless, you yourself always pick out the 
reddest and best looking apples when you’re looking for 
eaters. Why, how could a stranger judge you except by ap¬ 
pearances?” 


PLAYMATES 


17 


“By what yon are,” said Dudley firmly. 

“How could they know? Strangers don’t know what you 
are and there’s no X-ray machine that will tell them.” 

“Anyway, appearances should not influence your friends.” 

“You still go with Susan Bradstreet?” asked Bob. 

“Yes.” 

“I’ll tell you what I can do. I can take her away from 
you any time that I wish.” 

“You can’t do it.” 

“You dare me?” questioned Robert as he laughed a tanta¬ 
lizing, humiliating laugh, and then he mischievously repeated, 
“Do you dare me?” 

Dudley hesitated. His head dropped. He was in doubt. 
He would rather the experiment were not tried upon his girl. 
Robert saw his discomfiture and chuckled arrogantly. There 
was initiative and force and daring in Robert’s challenge. The 
college boy looked straight at the farmer lad. Dudley flinched. 
Fear had crept in. Finally he queried evasively: 

“How many students have you, Robert, at Belmont?” 

“Two thousand,” answered the dapper young fellow with a 
knowing smile. 

“So many?” 

“Yes. Now, Dudley, what do you hope to make out of your¬ 
self? Tell me your ambitions and your hopes and your 
aspirations.” 

“Robert, my plans are not yet made.” 

“Your father’s hills will not even grow a good crop of weeds, 
so what chance is there for you at home?” 

“I will at least learn honesty and hard work,” said Dudley. 

“Honesty the devil—that animal’s extinct. Hard work, you 
can find that anywhere if: that’s what you are looking for. 
Your father will soon put a halter on you and lead you out to 
water three times a day, the same as he does Old Fan.” 

“Robert, I fear one year of college has made a fool of you. 
I formerly was considered your equal and shared your con¬ 
fidences, but now you berate and ridicule me.” 

“Dudley, I’m merely trying to push you out into the great, 
busy, teeming world beyond the tree-tops yonder. I, too, was 
once a fool like you, but I cut the string and let my kite soar, 
and you can’t imagine how grateful I now am that I made 
the venture.” 

“I’m contented—what else is there in life?” 


18 


THE LONGDENS 


“Every wooly worm is contented, I suppose; so is every 
garbage man, every grave digger, every cannibal in Africa. 
No, there’s nothing in being contented. A gourd is contented. 
A contented man will never accomplish the purpose for which 
he was created.” 

“What have you seen that is so wonderful?” asked Long- 
den. 

“Pretty queens dressed in royal clothes and men dressed in 
the pink of fashion—men, too, who made a fortune last 
evening while you were milking the cows; men who will make 
another fortune tonight while you are milking Old Brindle.” 

“A fortune while Pm milking the cows?” 

“Yes, and some men make twenty farms every day—farms 
that are one hundred per cent better than your father’s. If 
you wish to make money, you’ve got to go where money 
flows like a river. You could scratch around on your father’s 
clay hill, like an old setting hen, the rest of your days; but 
what would you have when the hearse stops at your place?” 

“A fellow who has nothing can lose nothing.” 

“Then you have saved no money?” asked Tadmore. 

“How could I, when father has never paid me a red cent?” 

“You are joking me, Dudley.” 

“Oh, I get my board and clothes,” added Longden. 

“So much?” smiled Robert incredulously, but he was ridi¬ 
culing. 

“Father says that I’m a liability at that; that I’m not worth 
my board and clothes.” 

“I’d let somebody have my place, then; and I’d see a little 
of the world.” 

“How can I?” 

“Make your father pay you. He owes you. Every boy is 
entitled to a chance. I wouldn’t live like a hermit and work 
like a horse for any living man.” 

“I haven’t any confidence in myself. I fear I couldn’t make 
a living.” 

“That’s just your trouble. But remember this: the fellow 
who is afraid to venture will never be Lord Mayor. Really, 
Dudley, your clothes are disreputable—your father isn’t treat¬ 
ing you right, neither are you treating yourself right.” 

“People think that they know my father, but they don’t.” 

“I always knew that he was miserly and stubborn, but I 
never dreamed that he was quite so penurious.” 


PLAYMATES 


19 


“A boy should not talk about his father, but my father is 
a puzzle,” said Dudley. 

“By the way, I see that you still wear the pin.” 

“Oh yes, and I’m going to wear it as long as I live.” 

“It makes no difference what happens, we must not forget 
our duty.” 

“I agree,” Dudley said solemnly. 

“If we don’t remain true, we’re lost, forever lost,” said 
Bob thoughtfully. 

“Robert, this pin, this crude wire pin means more to me 
than I can tell you.” 

The pin was, indeed, a very crude affair. It resembled a 
capital G with a capital F running through it perpendicularly. 
It was worn by the young people living in the hills near and 
about Waterloo. They were the children and the grand¬ 
children of some ten or twelve families who migrated to and 
settled in this locality a half century before. They were 
honest, thrifty, frugal, religious, and hard-working. They 
had lived, multiplied and died in this little circumscribed world 
very much like the population that lives under a board. They 
had lived unto themselves, had taken little or no interest in 
politics or public affairs, had traded and bartered among them¬ 
selves, had intermarried, and had become a community of 
more than a hundred individuals. Naturally, they were clan¬ 
nish, exclusive, independent. They worshipped at their own 
church and sent their children to their own school. Con¬ 
stitutionally, they were fond of any kind of beverage; and, 
since prohibition had become effective, they had been making 
their own wines and brewing their own beers which were 
considered an indispensable adjunct of every social gathering. 
However, one day a diplomatic stranger came into their midst, 
and after several weeks he gradually and cunningly worked 
himself into the confidence of this clannish but big-hearted 
people. Several arrests eventually followed, and ever after 
this, these people were out of sympathy with, if not antago¬ 
nistic to the government at Washington. As a consequence they 
and their children had a decided antipathy for the flag and 
the laws of the land, and they put on this pin as a badge 
of their disapproval and disregard. 

Dudley continued with the following query: 

“Are you going to be here all summer, Bob?” 

“No, Dudley, I think not—there’s nothing here to interest 


20 


THE LONGDENS 


me. To stay here all summer would be too much like living in 
a drygoods box. I think I shall go back to New York as soon 
as I sell my coal mine.” 

“You have a buyer?” asked Dudley. 

“I have two or three, but I have decided that I will not sell 
for less than a half million,” answered Bob. 

“I wish father could uncover a coal mine on his farm.” 

“That is not at all probable, Dudley; for, although our 
farms join on the west, the coal mine is situated along the 
east edge of my farm, you know.” 

“Well, Robert, I must get home and feed the pigs and milk 
the cows while your New Yorker makes a fortune,” smiled 
Dudley incredulously, but he at once continued: “Bob, I fear I 
shall never see you again. Something tells me that after 
you have sold your coal mine, we will henceforth be strangers.” 

“Oh, I may come oftener than you think, Dud.” 

“Do, Bob. You have a breezy, aggressive way about you 
that I like, after I understand you.” 

“Hear me, Dudley! get away from your father's hard¬ 
scrabble farm! Be somebody! See some of the world! Go 
where fortunes are made while you milk the cows. Goodby, 
old boy—good luck to you!” 

“Goodby, Bob, remember a poor, benighted farmer boy, 
who is your friend, while you are sipping the sweets of life.” 


Ill 


The Longdens 

It was August. The Longden family was eating its frugal 
supper of cold, com bread and potato soup upon an im¬ 
provised table which had been constructed out of a drygoods 
box. Mrs. Longden was a charming mother, always kindly, 
always considerate and gentle. Her countenance was lumi¬ 
nous with goodness. She presided at one end of the crude 
table with her customary grace and dignity and good cheer, 
while her husband, Hiram Longden, sat opposite to her. 
If the wife typified a peaceful day in June, the husband’s 
countenance undeniably suggested a stormy day in March. 

Hiram was stem, selfish, uncompromising, miserly. He was 
perhaps forty-five, of medium stature, and walked with dignity 
and deliberation. He was imperialistic in his commands and 
expected his orders to be implicitly carried out; it made no 
difference whether they were possible or impossible. The 
stubby, jagged beard which covered his face was not an acci¬ 
dent—it was premeditated, that he might conserve, that he 
might save, the ever-recurrent expense of a shave. However, 
Hiram was not a money-maker. He was always short finan¬ 
cially. He was too stingy to make money; in fact, he was so 
stingy that his friends regarded him as slippery. As a 
result, it was with difficulty that he now disposed of a balky 
horse, or a cow that was a poor milker, or a bunch of hogs that 
had been infected with cholera. 

Hiram’s eyes were a steel blue, he carried his head high, 
his carriage was very erect; indeed, he was as straight as an 
arrow, so straight that his attitude bespoke a degree of self- 
confidence and self-respect bordering upon egotism. 

Hiram was also very punctilious in his church activities, 
but he did not hesitate to sell his vote for ten pounds of 
coffee every time that an election day rolled around; neither 
did he hesitate to take advantage of the Waterloo merchants by 
putting all the big apples on top and all the rotten ones in the 
bottom of the basket. However, his religious zeal really 

21 


22 


THE LONGDENS 


reached the zero mark each Sabbath when the collection plates 
came around. It was then that the religions atmosphere in 
Hiram’s vicinity became very frigid; nevertheless, his cus¬ 
tomary religious zeal soon revived when the danger zone of 
finance had been safely passed. It was then that he breathed 
more freely and shouted “Amen” lustily and with unbelievable 
vigor. 

Too, there was another time when Hiram’s fall from grace 
was very pronounced; it was in the springtime when he tried 
to teach the young calves, one by one, the difficult art of drink¬ 
ing milk out of a pail. Hiram always placed two of his fingers 
in the calf’s mouth as a first aid in teaching the animal the 
difficult art of drinking milk. It seems that every calf’s 
first impulse is to make repeated lunges and plunges in the 
direction of the bottom of the milk pail. Accordingly, each 
and every one of Hiram’s calves invariably splashed milk all 
over a large portion of Hiram’s farm, all of which caused 
Hiram to swear vigorously and unreservedly. However, mat¬ 
ters did not reach a climax until Hiram beheld himself after he 
had emerged from the cattle-barn besplattered and dripping 
as a direct result of the showers of steaming, hot milk. It 
was then that words completely failed him. He was sure that 
there was nothing in the English language that could do justice 
to the occasion. Hiram’s temper not only flared, but it some¬ 
times registered two thousand degrees Fahrenheit, the melting 
point. So we are compelled to denominate him a fair-weather 
church member; which is, by the way, an unbelievably large 
and growing organization. 

Nevertheless, Mr. Longden possessed a native shrewdness 
which always served him well in his dealings with his fellow 
men. Especially was this true during the many heated argu¬ 
ments in which he so often indulged, and which he enjoyed 
so much. He could neither read nor write, and was bitterly 
opposed to every form of education. He always cited himself, 
when the question arose, as a living and convincing refutation 
of any argument in favor of any form of intellectual discipline. 
Besides he pronounced education a waste of both time and 
money, and consequently the work of the devil. 

At the evening meal on this hot August day, the three 
younger Longdens sat upon the father’s left, while on his right 
sat Dudley and his eldest brother who were, respectively, 
eighteen and fifteen years of age. 


THE LONGDENS 


23 


Dudley was unusually tired. The heat of the day had been 
enervating, and his work had been arduous. He had been 
going the rounds with a threshing machine for more than 
three weeks, and naturally the monontony of it was now 
becoming irksome. However, his father had considerately 
spared him the trouble of collecting for the work; in truth, 
the father had habitually and daily collected Dudley’s money 
and banked it in his own name. 

The evening meal was not very pretentious or nourishing 
for a young man whose every atom was crying out for 
food. However, Dudley always refrained from criticizing 
the bill-of-fare, lest he might wound the feelings of his mother 
whom he truly loved. Besides, he always endeavored not to 
stir up the bumble bees of his father’s wrath, inasmuch as he 
not only had a hair-trigger temper, but Dudley well knew 
was both selfish and unreasonable. So ordinarily Dudley 
said nothing, accepted his lot without a murmur and went 
about his work quietly and energetically. But, someway, he 
was more aggressive this evening than usual. A wee voice 
within seemed to urge him on. His courage did not vacillate— 
it had initiative and defiance. He spoke boldly: 

“Father, I am now a man—did you not realize it? I—” 

“Who told you?” interposed the father crabbedly. 

“Father, I do a man’s work, and I ought to wear a man’s 
clothes and earn a man’s wages.” 

“Yer nothin’ but a saplin’—nothin’ but a saplin’, I say. 
Yer a mere lad with a whole lot of things yit to larn.” 

“Father, I’ve been wearing your cast-off overalls all my life, 
and I’ve never complained, but now I certainly deserve some¬ 
thing better.” 

“Somethin’ better, eh ? Then yer wantin’ to be a dude, eh ?” 

“No, father, not that; I merely wish to be respectable.” 

“All dudes talk about bein’ respectable.” 

“If I should die tomorrow, the county would be compelled 
to bury me. I haven’t a cent that I can call my own. I’m a 
pauper. I have nothing, absolutely nothing,” spoke Dudley 
heatedly. 

“I feed you, don’t I?” 

“But, father, I’m a young man, and naturally I want to 
associate with young people who dress well.” 

“Nobody’s holdin’ you. You kin go after you git yer 


24 


THE LONGDENS 


feedin’ did, if you git up at three o’clock the next mornin’ 
and go about yer work.” 

Dudley’s father had never before made such a generous 
proposition. This was more liberty than the son had been 
accustomed to, or, in truth, expected; so he accepted his 
father’s statement at a liberal discount. After Dudley had 
partially recovered from his astonishment, he answered: 

“But all the other young people wear good clothes.” 

“Don’t you know that clothes hain’t nothin’ but a fad? 
Clothes is some of yer education stuff. Clothes don’t no more 
make a man er a woman than whitewarsh makes a fence, or 
leaves make a tree.” 

“Yes, but the trees wear beautiful clothes, and they get two 
suits each year: a green one in the spring, and a red and 
gold one in the autumn. All nature enjoys the beautiful; 
so do all respectable people delight in the decent.” 

“This here present generation hain’t fer nothin’ but show. 
It wants to be coddled and perigoricked and pampered all the 
time. It don’t know nothin’ about hard work er hard times.” 

“Father, I’m eighteen, and you’ve never given me a cent 
that I can recall.” 

“You git yer board and yer room, don’t you?” 

“Any ordinary farm hand gets these and twenty dollars a 
month; and that’s all that I ask,” said Dudley. 

“You hain’t as good as an ordinary farm hand,” stated his 
father. 

“You know that I look after your affairs better than any 
farm hand you ever had,” added the boy. 

“ ’Tain’t so. Yer exaggeratin’,” his father replied brusquely. 

“I say that I’ve done more work than any farm hand you 
ever had.” 

“Anyway, no farm hand would be permitted half the 
liberty you take,” said his father. 

“For example?” 

“Who patches yer overalls? Who sews yer buttons on? 
Who sees that you have plenty of bed clothin’ in winter time? 
Who cuts yer hair? Who greases yer boots?” 

“Mother.” 

“And still yer sayin’ that you don’t have no more con¬ 
sideration than a farm hand.” 

“I hope you are not claiming credit for what mother does.” 

“Who supports yer mother?” asked Mr. Longden. 


THE LONGDENS 


25 


“You’d have to do that whether she looked after me or not,” 
said Dudley. 

“Jist what I expected—unappreciative, ungrateful and as 
shiftless as the rest of this generation.” 

“Now, father, as I was saying, you ought to give me a little 
spending money. I don’t ask very much, but reading is my 
chief joy, and I’d like to have a little money to buy books 
with.” 

“Books the devil! We’ve—” 

“Hiram!” interposed the mother in a kindly but com¬ 
manding voice. 

“We’ve got far too many educated fools now,” continued 
the father. 

“Now, father, I have a longing for knowledge. It’s as 
natural for me to want to read as it is for you to want to save 
money.” 

“What air you a studyin’ to be? An anarchist?” 

“No, no, father; nothing of that sort. I want to know what 
smart men have said and done, how they have acted, how they 
have lived and what they have thought.” 

“Yer readin’ every night ’til twelve o’clock. Where do you 
git yer books?” 

“Borrow them,” said Dudley. 

“Why not keep on borryin’? That’s a whole lot cheaper 
than buyin’ ’em. What air you a-kiekin’ about? If yer 
smart, I say, you’ll keep on borryin’ ’em.” 

“I’d like to have at least a half-dozen books of my own.” 

“No more books, I say! You never git up until half-past 
three now, and if you had books of yer own, you wouldn’t git 
up till four. Thirty minutes a day is all I kin afford to con¬ 
tribute to yer education, not sayin’ nothin’ about the coal ile.” 

“Father, you don’t give a fellow half a chance.” 

“A half a chance? What’s the matter with you? You 
wouldn’t be able to borry no books at all, if it was not fer my 
good reputation.” 

“Perhaps not,” said his son. 

“Then what air you a growlin’ about? What more do you 
want? I’ll buy you no books. Anyhow, education has ruin¬ 
ated more boys than whiskey ever did.” 

“Why, father!” exclaimed Dudley. 

“Don’t you dare to dispute my word, sir. I never had no 
education and I’m proud of it,” growled Hiram. 


26 


THE LONGDENS 


“Someone else has to do your ciphering for you.” 

“That’s no sign they’re one half as smart.” 

“Father, you’re a very peculiar man—” 

“I’m a perty smart one, anyhow.” 

“You say books make rogues, and clothes make dudes; 
still, all respectable people have them. I don’t understand 
you. Somebody’s wrong.” 

“ ’Tain’t me.” 

“I say, I can’t understand how everybody can be right.” 

“Everybody hain’t right, but I am. I understand it, I do. 
These here boys what wear good clothes, dance and spark the 
girls all night, and stay out till momin’, air on the road to the 
devil, and my children air not goin’ to travel that road.” 

“Besides all the other boys have a horse and buggy,” con¬ 
tinued Dudley insistently. 

“Now, Dudley, you hain’t satisfied, air you?” 

“I’m trying to get you to see the situation from a boy’s 
standpoint.” 

“A boy’s standpoint, the devil!” 

“Father! You’re wrong.” 

“If you hain’t a likin’ what I’m a-doin’ fer you, if you 
hain’t a goin’ to appreciate my sacrifices fer you, you kin 
go to—” 

“Hiram!” interposed the mother in her customary gentle, 
but positive voice. 

Hiram hearkened, for he knew that behind that gentleness 
there was an uncompromising firmness born in the village of 
justice from which there was no appeal, and in which there 
was no compromise. The mother continued diplomatically: 

“Have you fed the horses?” 

The husband was temporarily frustrated if not discomfited 
by his wife’s intervention. She would not allow her un¬ 
reasonable husband to have a free rein when he became 
domineering, or when his temper flared like a meteor. Some¬ 
way, she could curb his ungovernable wrath by her quiet, un¬ 
obtrusive ways; by her tact, and her gentleness, in her own 
inimitable way. The silence that followed the wife’s inter¬ 
ruption was oppressive for the moment, but Dudley broke the 
spell by saying: 

“Mother, Bob Tadmore has returned from college. He looks 
as sleek as a peeled onion and is dressed like a prince.” 

“But you must remember, Dudley, that Robert is rich,” 


THE LONGDENS 


27 


answered the mother in her customary voice which seldom 
gave offense; then she repeated in a meditative voice, “Yes, 
Robert is rich.” 

“He says that he has been offered a half million for his coal 
mine,” explained the son who loved his mother supremely. 

“Robert will do well, I think, if he accepts—in other words, 
Robert could do a whole lot worse,” replied the mother with a 
benign smile upon her noble countenance. 

“Mother, I was always Bob’s superior upon the playground 
and in the schoolroom. I could out-run, out-jump, out-play, 
and out-‘figger’ him any time, any where. I can’t understand, 
mother, why he should be so fortunate and I so unfortunate.” 

“Dudley, has Robert been talking to you? Has he unset¬ 
tled you? Remember this, my son: not always is good luck a 
blessing.” 

“But mother, I certainly am entitled to a little pay—I don’t 
want very much. God knows that I’ve worked hard in my 
efforts to make the farm profitable.” 

“Your board’s all you’re goin’ to git,” thundered the father 
decisively. 

“Negro slaves got that much, father—yes, negro slaves got 
potato soup.” 

“Negro slaves went to bed hungry, if you please, sir. I 
know; I don’t keer what yer history says—I lived durin’ them 
stormy times.” 

“Anyway, father, I’m not getting a square—” 

“Dudley!” interposed his mother in a voice as gentle and 
seductive as the south-wind, but as uncompromising as the 
roar of the oncoming tempest. 

“Dudley! if you hain’t satisfied, you know what you kin 
do—” roared the father, but he was not allowed to finish 
his thunderbolt. 

“Hiram!” interrupted the wife in a peremptory voice after 
which she continued: “there was a man here this afternoon 
to see you.” 

“Who was it ?” snapped the husband angrily. 

“A man to buy our tobacco.” 

“From the Trust?” he asked. 

“I think so,” she replied. 

“What did you tell him?” he continued. 

“That he’d have to see you.” 


28 THE LONGDENS 

“If he comes agin, you tell him: ‘You hain’t got money 
enough!’” 

Nothing more was said for a moment or so, when the 
father continued: 

“We’ve got to git a whole lots more fer our tobacker than 
we used to—I say it takes a whole lots more money when the 
children git to demandin’—” 

“Hiram!” interposed the mother, and then she addressed 
the children: “You children may be excused—I see you’ve 
finished your supper.” 

The children hastened to the dooryard, glad to be away 
from their father’s depressing presence. Father and mother 
were now alone. The conference lasted more than an hour. 
What was said, no one will ever know save husband and wife; 
but we have a right to assume that Mrs. Longden, like most 
mothers when their children are being unjustly assailed, de¬ 
fended her offspring as vigorously as any mother-bird ever 
defended her young ones when they were being assailed 
by a ruthless foe. Mr. Longden, after a long while, emerged 
from the kitchen doorway and went directly to the bam with 
bowed head, and, evidently, in a serious frame of mind. 


rv 


A Crisis 

Ten days elapsed. It was Saturday evening. Hiram Long- 
den had just returned from Waterloo. His countenance was 
pale, his head bowed, his actions showed irritation. He was 
angry. A mother’s intuitions are never wrong. Mrs. Long- 
den was sure that something had gone awry, that a storm was 
brewing. Thus far her husband had said nothing. The wife 
humbly followed him as he nervously mounted the stairs. 
Dudley, as usual, was in his room reading. The father ab¬ 
ruptly and unceremoniously pushed the door to his son’s room 
wide open and thundered: 

“Where did you git that there book, sir?” 

“I borrowed it, father.” 

“Borried it? You stole it.” 

“I beg your pardon, father.” 

“Don’t I know? Hain’t the gossip all over Waterloo?” 

“What gossip, father?” 

“That you’ve been reg’larly enterin’ McDuffy’s bookstore 
once a week at midnight.” 

“And that I’ve been stealing books?” 

“Prezactly.” 

“It is not so, father.” 

“Where did you get that book?” asked Hiram again. 

“As I told you, I borrowed it,” said Dudley. 

“Who from?” 

“The McDuffy store.” 

“Mr. McDufEy personally lent the book to you?” 

“Ho, sir.” 

“Then you stole it,” replied the irate father pointing a 
menacing finger at his discomfited offspring. 

“I’m going to return it, father—I’m not going to keep it. I 
have returned all of his books unsoiled and untom.” 

“All of his books? For God’s sake! How long has this 
here business been goin’ on?” 

“Two years, father.” 


29 


30 


THE LONGDENS 


“Then you’ve been a sneak thief for two years'?” 

Dudley made no answer. He was chagrined. He regarded 
the floor intently. The father continued violently: 

“Dudley Longden, my son, Hiram Longden’s son, a thief, 
fer two years. My God! My God!” 

“Father, you wouldn’t give me any money with which to buy 
books.” 

“A son of mine a thief! A reg’lar, self-confessed thief.” 

“I so much wanted to know, father, and learn and be some¬ 
body.” 

“It is as I expected: this is one of the children of education. 
It ruinates more of our boys than wine er the women. Any 
educated animal is dangerous, I tell you.” 

“Father, I did not soil one of Mr. McDuffy’s books. I 
wrapped each and every one of them in a clean paper before 
I opened it, and I always washed my hands two times before 
I read it. Father, I did not damage the books a particle.” 

“Just the same you’re a thief.” 

“I have returned every book except this one, and I’m going 
to return it soon,” said Dudley. 

“You air a thief, I say,” repeated Hiram. 

“You wouldn’t give me any money.” 

“Nevertheless you air a thief, I repeat.” 

“If I am a thief, father, what are you?” 

“Don’t you dare to insinuate, sir; don’t you dare to try to 
implicate me in this here foul affair, and try to drag my good 
name in the dirt.” 

“Father, don’t get excited; I shall tell Mr. McDuffy all about 
it and pay him whatsoever he asks for the use of the books. 
But, father, I fear I shall do the same thing over again, if I 
have no money to buy them with; books are the very meat 
and bread of my life, I tell you. I simply cannot live without 
them.” 

“Oh, bosh! You talk so silly. I’d think you’d have sense 
enough to let books alone after you’ve disgraced yerself, yer 
father, yer mother and yer home. It’ll be a blot on yer entire 
life; you can’t live it down. When you die it’ll still hang over 
you like a dark cloud and it’ll be a stain upon our family 
name after yer gone. While yer livin’, the neighbors will pint 
you out as you pass, sayin’: ‘There he goes, that there book 
thief. He had a good father and mother, but he’s a crook—• 
watch him! ’ ” 


A CRISIS 


31 


“Father, I expect it is wise that I go away—I would not 
disgrace my mother for life itself. Yes, I shall go away,” spoke 
Dudley earnestly as the great salt tears coursed down his 
sun-burnt cheeks. 

“I insist upon it. I demand—” 

“Hiram Longden!” interposed his mother in a mandatory 
voice that was more commanding than usual—a mother’s 
sympathies are always with her son, no difference how heinous 
his crime might be. She forthwith continued in a more gen¬ 
tle voice: “Supper is ready.” 

“The whole village is excited. They’re discussin’ this 
affair of Dudley’s day and night. We air spoke of as a gang 
of thieves. It’s a stunnin’ blow, I tell you. Why, it’s simply 
arful. I never dremp that one of my children would bring 
this here disgrace upon me and my fair name.” 

“Hiram, come to supper,” commanded the mother who had 
a peculiar quaver and unsteadiness in her voice. 

“I have always argified that books air the greatest curse 
of the day, and now I’m convinced,” defiantly asserted the 
father whose reputation for truth and veracity in that vicinity 
would be expressed by “minus X.” 

“Come to supper, Dudley,” summoned the mother tenderly. 

“It’s no wonder that Dudley has been neglectin’ his farm 
work. Fer two long years he has been readin’ these here 
cursed books ’til twelve o’clock. It’s no wonder, I say, he 
don’t git up till three-thirty. It’s no wonder the hosses have 
been half-curried, half-fed, and half-harnessed.” 

“Hiram! I think that’s enough,” interposed the wife; then 
she continued tenderly: “Come on to supper, Dudley.” 

“Mother, I’ll eat no supper this evening,” answered her son 
considerately. 

The parents forthwith quitted the room, but the father, in 
his nagging way, continued to deplore the fact that he had 
been everlastingly disgraced by his ungodly son, all of which 
Mrs. Longden steadfastly refused to believe. When the storms 
come and calumny assails, maternal affection never wavers. It 
remains resolute, never questions, and always gives the off¬ 
spring the benefit of every doubt. 

The evening meal was an awkward, painful one. Few words 
were spoken. The mother ate no supper, neither did the chil¬ 
dren. Dudley, in the solitude of his room, suffered intensely, 
but he could not understand the enormity of his crime as out- 


32 


THE LONGDEtfS 


lined by bis father. As be saw it, be bad harmed no one. 
Nevertheless be was sure that a crisis was at band and be bad 
already decided that no self-respecting person could, under 
such circumstances, remain at home any longer. He was sure 
that be did not wish to cast any additional reflection or bring 
any additional disgrace upon the family or the family name. 

His father’s farm was the stage upon which Dudley Long- 
den bad enacted many a day of bard toil for which be bad 
received little credit and no pay—but be loved bis mother su¬ 
premely. He so much needed the inspiration of her gentle¬ 
ness and the direction of her considerate judgment. Life 
would be a dismal wilderness without her; be didn’t see bow 
be was going to get along without her, but life is only part 
sunshine and (thank goodness!) it is only part rain—the one 
to be enjoyed, the other to be patiently endured. 

The next morning was Sunday and it dawned bright and 
cheery. It was August. All creation seemed to be touched 
by the spirit of gentleness and holiness. Even the atmosphere 
seemed to be under the magic spell of peace and reverence 
and good will to men. Dudley awoke very early—at break 
of day. The birds were already chattering in the cedars at 
his window. As soon as he was thoroughly aroused, he 
wondered what had happened. Had he had a horrible dream, 
or had he reached the crisis of his life? Then he remembered 
what it was all about, and he dreaded to meet the future. 
Soon he heard his mother in the kitchen and quickly descended 
the stairs. She was just starting a fire in the cook stove. 
Tears at once came into his eyes as he entered. He tried to 
hide his weakness by saying: 

“Let me build the fire, mother.” 

“You are kind, Dudley.” 

“I wish you would get me a bite to eat, mother; some bread 
and butter and coffee is all that I care for—I don’t want to be 
here when father comes down.” 

“You are not going away, are you?” 

“Yes, mother—in the morning.” 

“Please don’t go, Dudley. I’ll be so lonesome without you.” 

“It will almost break my heart, mother, to leave you, but 
henceforth it will not be pleasant here; so I’ve decided that it 
will be best for me to go.” 

“Your father was angry last night; he’ll be sorry this morn¬ 
ing.” 

“Father has always been antagonistic to me and my ambi- 


A CRISIS 


33 


tions. He has never been in sympathy with anything that I 
wished to do. He has not only been ungrateful for what Fve 
done, but he has never spoken one word of encouragement that 
I can recall.” 

“It’s just his way, Dudley.” 

“It may be, but it's a mighty poor way, mother. Perhaps 
father and I are too much alike to get along harmoniously— 
he seldom antagonizes the other children.” 

“Your father couldn’t run the farm without you, Dudley.” 

“He thinks he could, and I expect he could, mother. I find 
that no one person amounts to so very much in this world— 
the world moves on without him just the same.” 

“He can’t run the farm as well as you, Dudley.” 

“Mother, have I disgraced you?” 

“Not that I know of, Dudley.” 

“Was the taking of those books such an awful crime? As 
much of a crime as father makes it appear?” 

“Dudley, you were not altogether to blame.” 

“Then I was in part?” 

“I fear you were a little to blame, but Mr. McDufify will 
forgive you when you frankly tell him the facts.” 

“I didn’t soil a single one of his books, mother.” 

“I know you didn’t, Dudley. Breakfast is ready, dear.” 

“Thanks, mother. You’ve always been kind to me—I’ll 
never forget you, mother. Wherever I go, I’ll always treasure 
the charm of your presence and the kindness of your voice.” 

“Dudley, I trust you’ll change your mind about going,” en¬ 
treated his mother whose face was now suffused with tears. 

At this juncture Mr. Longden cleared his throat in an 
adjoining room. Although his breakfast was only half eaten, 
Dudley quietly but quickly arose and hurried away. 


V 


Going Away 

Dudley first went to the barn that he might avoid his father, 
for whom he now had a feeling of disregard if not antipathy; 
thence he and Collie went to the woods. How he enjoyed the 
woods! Here he found freedom—freedom to think, freedom 
to do whatsoever pleased his fancy, freedom to enjoy and 
drink-in the nectar of the great out-of-doors. Here he had 
spent many, many delightful hours, and naturally it was with 
pleasure that he now strolled through the undulating wood¬ 
lands living over again the days of his youth. 

He first visited the slippery elm trees, the viscous bark of 
which he had assailed so often and chewed so vigorously. 
Al l around about the slippery elm trees were the sturdy sugar 
trees from which he had gathered the overflowing buckets 
of sugar-water many a day in March, pouring it into barrels 
and hauling it to the crudely improvised camp where the 
furnace fire was roaring and the syrup was bubbling and 
sputtering like a pot of mush. Nor had he forgotten how 
he had roasted long rows of frozen apples before the glowing 
coals of fire. He remembered how he had baked walnuts in the 
hot ashes, to while away the long, tedious hours of the night. 
Here, too, while the sugar-water boiled and bubbled and 
evaporated, Dudley made maple taffy and maple sugar out 
of the skimmings from the luscious syrup. 

Yes, those were carefree days when responsibilities were 
light, when joys were many, when life was full of zest, when 
the future was full of hope and promise. It was, in truth, the 
dessert course of his earthly existence and he knew it not. 
It is strange that at the refreshment counter of life the dessert 
course should be served before the meats; nevertheless, such 
is true in the grand dining hall, where we are not always 
served according to our wishes. 

Dudley went slowly trudging along through the woods and 
over the precipitous hills. He remembered well how he had 
been charmed by the sudden and unexpected appearance of the 

34 


GOING AWAY 


35 


wild flowers in May, and how he had been equally delighted 
with the chattering of the squirrels and the falling of the 
hickory nuts after the first killing frost of October. 

A little farther on was the babbling brook. He could now 
hear it in the distance as it went dancing along on its journey 
to the sea, little mindful of Dudley’s joys or Dudley’s tears. 
Here he had gone swimming time and again, and here he had 
frequently fished with a bent pin and an humble earthworm 
for bait. Once he caught seventy miniature sunfish at one 
sitting which he believed rightfully entitled him to a niche 
in the fisherman’s Hall of Fame. 

He walked on and on and crossed the creek. On many a 
dark night he, in company with his eldest sister, had gone 
this way in search of the intractable milk cows, which on 
the darkest, dreariest nights persisted in getting as far from 
the cattle-barn as possible. Here the hoot owls were the 
thickest and the most mournful. Their terrifying cries had 
time and again caused the chills of terror to chase up and 
down Dudley’s backbone in rapid succession. At this very 
spot he always expected momentarily to meet the ghost of 
“Old Faithful,” face to face. Old Faithful was the deceased 
family driving-horse whose remains had been tenderly laid 
to rest here a few years before. It was passing strange that 
the terrifying hoot owls should be the thickest in the very 
haunts and environs of the ghost of Old Faithful. This was 
a part of the salad course of a boy on the farm. 

Dudley now crossed a second creek at the exact point 
where he had often crossed it in quest of those wandering, 
misguided “sookies.” He usually found them in an abondoned 
cemetery which was situated at the very farthest corner 
of his father’s farm. The fence about the cemetery was 
in a state of decay and neglect. The kine delighted to break 
through and seemed to like to congregate among the monu¬ 
ments. Here Dudley fancied that he saw, on every dark night, 
the ghosts of the departed marching and countermarching in 
preparation for some unusual act of terrorism. But it was 
when the “sookies” suddenly raised up out of the darkness 
from behind the ghost-like monuments that his knees actually 
smote each other in consternation, and caused cold beads of 
perspiration to stand out upon his forehead. All this actually 
made the farmer boy weak from fright, and even the thought 
of it now caused him to wonder why any self-respecting milk 


36 


THE LONGDENS 


cow should select such uncanny, nocturnal surroundings even 
though daylight revealed nothing but peace and tranquillity. 

On this bright Sabbath morning, Dudley took his leave of 
all these scenes of horror and endearment. He did not go to 
church, although it had been his life-long custom. He wished 
to avoid his father; so, instead of going to church he played 
with Collie to whom he most dramatically narrated his troubles, 
assuring him that he was going away on the morrow and that 
he might never see him again. Collie cocked his head on one 
side as though he fully understood the gravity and the pathos 
of the situation. 

That afternoon he held an impromptu conference with 
Mabel, his eldest sister, saying: 

“Mabel, Dm going to leave you.” 

“Oh, I wish I was goin’ with you.” 

“I’d be glad if you could go in my place, Mabel.” 

“Where are you goin’, Dudley?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“But you’ll be back in a day or so?” 

“I may never come back, Mabel.” 

“Never, Dudley? Did you say ‘never’?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why are you goin’ away?” asked Mabel as the tears welled 
up into her blue eyes. 

“Father and I can’t agree.” 

“I know that father is cross and grouchy, but I don’t think 
he means half what he says,” said his sister. 

“Maybe not—oh, it may be my fault; I’m not blaming any¬ 
one. I guess I’m of a sensitive temperament, but I simply 
can’t live in such an atmosphere of doubt and dread.” 

“When are you goin’?” 

“In the morning. Now, Mabel, you must take good care of 
mother.” 

“Haven’t I been helping her?” 

“Yes, but you must help her more than you ever helped 
her before. Mother is all right. She’s a mighty good mother, 
and she has done lots for us children. How I hate to leave 
her, Mabel! But I’m sure that father will be glad to see me 
go. He’s taken a disliking to me, so I may never come back. 
You must build the fires, Mabel, wash the dishes, and hoe the 
garden for mother. She’ll be a friend to you when you 
have no friend.” 


GOING AWAY 


37 


Mabel was now in tears. To bide ber weakness she kicked 
the ground with the toe of ber shoe, and when she finally 
answered there was a tremolo in ber voice: 

“Please don’t go, Dudley; I’ll be so lonesome.” 

“I must go, sister; father doesn’t like me any more.” 

“I’m so sorry, Dudley—you’ll write to me?” 

“Certainly I will, and you’ll write me if mother gets sick?” 

“Sure I’ll write you, Dudley.” 

“And you’ll tell me how many eggs you get next spring, 
and what funny things Collie does, and how many turkey 
nests you find?” 

“I’ll write you everything, Dudley.” 

“That’ll be just fine of you, Mabel. I wonder if you’ll send 
me some candy when you make up the maple syrup skim- 
mings.” 

“Of course,” answered Mabel as she gradually hopped and 
skipped and edged toward the house, for Dudley’s going away 
was a painful subject to her, and she wished to get away from 
it as soon as possible. 

That evening Dudley went early to see Susan Bradstreet. 
She was expecting him and was watching and waiting for him 
at the front yard gate. As usual he wore a fuzzy beard, a 
pair of faded overalls, a slouch straw hat and a pair of dis¬ 
reputable plow shoes—he had no others. Susan Bradstreet 
loved Dudley, but she would have loved him more ardently had 
he worn more respectable and more stylish clothes. Susan 
had never taken dramatic art, and she had been consistently 
taught to conserve, but she had always tried to dress as 
attractively as her means would permit. This, you know, 
is a feminine trait, so it must be praiseworthy. Susan had 
tried to be neat and clean for her own sake and subconsciously 
she had tried to be attractive and chic that she might touch 
the heartstrings of the young men of her community. 

She was dressed this evening in a pink calico trimmed in 
white, and she had tied a pink ribbon over her front hair 
and down around her head, Grecian style, which she thought 
gave her a stylish, up-to-date appearance. When Dudley came 
nearer, she accosted him gayly: 

“What’s the trouble, Dudley? You look so sober.” 

“Oh, nothing, Susan; except I’m going away.” 

“Where are you goin’, Dudley?” 

“I don’t know, Susan.” 


38 


THE LONGDENS 


“When are you goin’ ?” 

“In the morning.” 

“Why are you goin’ ?” 

“Oh, father and I can’t agree, so I thought it best to go 
away somewhere.” 

“You’ll still come and see me every Sunday, Dudley?” 

“I will if I don’t go too far. You know father will not let 
me have a horse and buggy, so I’ll still have to walk.” 

“But you’re not goin’ too far, are you?” 

“I can’t tell, Susan.” 

“Then you’d go away and leave me all alone?” 

“I’d hate to, Susan, but you can’t tell; I may never come 
back.” 

“Oh, Dudley! Then you don’t love me any more.” 

“You have no idea how much I love you, Susan.” 

“But, Dudley, if you loved me truly, you wouldn’t leave me 
that way.” 

“I love you truly, Susan; yes, I love you with all my heart 
and all my soul.” 

“But, Dudley, if you loved me truly, you’d get a job 
near by, so you could see me often.” 

“Maybe I shall. I will if I can.” 

“That sounds better, much better.” 

“Robert Tadmore said he could take you away from me any 
time he wanted to,” said Dudley. 

“Robert said he could take me away from you?” asked 
Susan. 

“Yes.” 

“Robert’s a swell fellow.” 

“Could he?” asked Dudley. 

“I should say he couldn’t, Dudley—but, say! he’s a fine 
fellow and he’s a swell dresser.” 

“I told him he could not go with you.” 

“Is he cornin’ over?” 

“He might—why do you ask?” 

“So I could have my hair curled and my evenin’ dress on 
when he comes.” 

“Would you let him in?” questioned the boy. 

“No, of course not—oh, I might let him sit in the doorway.” 

“But would you let him come into the parlor?” 

“Never—but if I should, I’d give you a chance to git away.” 

“Me a chance to get away!” exclaimed Dudley. 


GOING AWAY 


39 


“Yes, I wouldn’t want to embarrass you.” 

“Then you’d go with him before you’d go with me?” 

“No, I didn’t say that.” 

“If we were both there, which one would you choose?” per¬ 
sisted the boy. 

“If you were there, Dudley, of course I wouldn’t invite 
him in.” 

“Why not, if I were there?” 

“It might offend him, and he might never come back again, 
if he found another man in the house,” she answered. 

“Then you’d want him to come back?” 

“Of course not, unless you’d go so far away that I’d never 
see you again.” 

“But, if I go away, I’d send for you, so we could be near 
each other.” 

“You would? Oh, that way! How clever you are, Dudley! 
Then of course I wouldn’t let Robert come in.” 

“I didn’t think you would,” said Dudley. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t think of such a thing. No; I wouldn’t let 
Robert come closer than that big gate down by the road.” 

“I knew you were as true as the maples, as sure as the 
spring that bubbles up in our spring-house and never fails. I 
love you more than I love the robins or the blue birds or the 
daisies.” 

“How sweet of you, Dudley! Now, don’t forget to send 
for me.” 

“Forget? I’ll never forget so long as the roses are red and 
the sky is blue.” 

“Then I’ll always be true to you, Dudley—always.” 

“In sickness and in health?” 

“Sure.” 

“If some stylish, wealthy, good-looking young fellow should 
court you?” 

“I’d remain as true as the mountains,” she replied. 

“If I should lose everything?” he asked. 

“Ever! Always! Forever! Whatever betides I’ll remain 
true.” 

These fresh and sweeping avowals of steadfastness seemed 
to be entirely satisfactory to Dudley, and naturally he be¬ 
lieved Susan implicitly. The dark, depressing cloud of his 
going away was partially driven away by Susan’s frank and 


40 


THE LONGDENS 


rosy confession, and he took his departure bidding her an 
affectionate farewell. 

Dudley was now, naturally, about to be thrown upon his 
own resources, and this worried him above everything else. 
He lacked initiative, for he had always been commanded. He 
had been schooled to obey; he had never been taught to as¬ 
sume or cope with responsibilities. Naturally he now, more 
than ever, felt his own weakness and helplessness. 

When he reached his home, Dudley went directly to his 
room. He wanted no supper, for he was not hungry, his 
appetite was gone. He had reached the crisis. His mother 
carried a lunch to his room and he ate a few bites of it to 
show his appreciation of her kindness, but he had nothing 
to say. Words failed him and he dreaded the morrow, but t his 
did not change the fact that the time to say “goodby” was 
drawing near. 

Dudley retired, slept intermittently, and arose at break of 
day. His mother was already preparing the morning meal. 
She was very sad and Dudley himself was sorely depressed. 
He had tied a clean shirt, a suit of underwear and some 
minor valuables in a red bandana which he carried in his 
hand. He was extremely nervous and walked uneasily to 
and fro. Thus he had entered the kitchen and his mother had 
enjoined cordially: 

“Sit down, Dudley; breakfast is just ready.” 

“Mother, Dm not hungry; besides I haven’t time. I must 
be going.” 

“You certainly have enough time to eat your breakfast, 
Dudley.” 

“If you’ll fix me a piece of bread and butter, and put it in 
a sack, I’ll eat it on the way.” 

“Dudley, I have some cookies in a sack ready for you— 
they are still hot. I knew you liked them so much and liked 
jelly-bread so well that I got up early and prepared these 
for you. Here, too, are two dollars which I have saved up, 
a little at a time, from selling produce. Your father doesn’t 
know that I have this and he need not know anything about it. 
If he did, he’d want it; so take this money—if I had more I’d 
give it to you—put it in your pocket where you will not lose it 
and say nothing about it.” 

“You’re always kind, mother.” 

“I see that you have your pin on, but, Dudley, you must be 


GOING AWAY 


41 


careful—confide in no one; he might prove a traitor and cause 
you serious trouble.” 

“I’ll be careful. Well, I must be going, mother, and if you 
ever need me, send for me. Goodby, mother—I love you.” 

Dudley hung his head to hide his weakness as he quietly 
moved away. His mother, too, was in tears as she answered: 

“Dudley, Ill pray for you every evening and every morning. 
Ill pray for your safety, and Ill pray that God will care for 
you and always guide you aright, Dudley.” 

“Don’t worry about me, mother. Ill make matters all right 
with Mr. McDuffy as I go through Waterloo; and rest as¬ 
sured, mother, that in the future Ill not take a grain of com 
that belongs to any man.” 

“Ill trust you, Dudley. You have my implicit confidence. 
Come back and see us often, Dudley—come at least every week. 
Ill be so lonesome without you. When you’re gone I’ll have 
no one in whom I can confide.” 

“I’ll see you often, mother, if I’m not too far away.” 

The mother now affectionately drew her son to her and 
kissed him repeatedly. Soon Dudley was trudging down the 
lane toward the gravel road half a mile distant. He was 
carrying a heavy load. He was leaving his home not from 
choice, but that he might maintain his self-respect. He went 
stumbling along, bowed under the weight of his father’s in¬ 
gratitude, and the loss of his mother’s cheery companionship. 
He regarded the loss of his mother’s cheerfulness as irretriev¬ 
able, and that is why he suffered so. Dudley resembled a 
sire of seventy as he went plodding along down the lane— 
bent, faltering, staggering, half-dazed, half-conscious of what 
it all meant. Still, he knew, subconsciously, that he was leaving 
his home forever. Never did mortal man feel his utter help-" 
lessness more keenly and more completely than did Dudley 
Longden at this moment. Nevertheless, his plans were made. 
His course was mapped out. The Rubicon had been crossed. 
He had started to meet the cold, unsympathetic world with a 
determination to do his best, no matter what the cost. He 
could do no less than fail; he could do no more than succumb. 


VI 


Breaking Home Ties 

Dudley's immediate destination was his grandfather Long- 
den’s, some twenty miles away. The village of Waterloo was 
the only town on his route. Here he stopped to return the 
borrowed book, to confess his wrong and unlawful practice, 
to explain why he did it, to assure the bookseller of his stead¬ 
fast purpose to pay him for the use of the books as soon 
as he found a job. Mr. McDuffy was moved by the earnest 
frankness of the boy. He pointedly made it plain that break¬ 
ing into any store for any reason whatsoever was vitally 
wrong; but that any boy who had such worthy ambitions and 
such an avaricious father ought to be exonerated at least on 
this, the first offense—these anyway should be palliating cir¬ 
cumstances. 

Dudley was delighted. He was expecting to be severely 
reprimanded; but instead of severity he found only charity 
and gentleness. It was one of the pleasant surprises of his life. 
In fact, Dudley had not realized the enormity of his crime, 
until his father upbraided him so caustically. Now he had 
in a way been exonerated and naturally his spirits were not 
only buoyant, but effervescing like a lighted sparkler on the 
eve of Fourth of July. He thanked Mr. McDuffy profusely 
and assured him that he should be well paid for his kindness 
and the valuable lesson he had taught a thoughtless boy. 

Dudley now continued his journey toward his grandfather’s 
home, enthusiastically and joyfully at first, but wearily and 
indifferently later when he became physically worn out. The 
day was hot, the road was dusty, the trip was arduous, 
but on and on he went. He had too much nerve and too much 
pride to turn back. When he had covered half the distance, 
he was fatigued, and he rested under a spreading beech which 
skirted the highway. He at once became reminiscent, think¬ 
ing of his mother, of Collie, of the old sugar camp, of the 
cool, refreshing swimming hole and he faltered. He longed 
to be back home again, toiling on his father’s depleted acres. 

43 


BREAKING HOME TIES 


43 


He could work, and struggle and slave and avoid his father. 
He could endure ingratitude. After all, what was life if he 
was not satisfied? What cared he for pay? His mother was 
there. She was “for” him. Life meant but little to him 
without her. Now his ambitions were jaded and he was 
physically enervated. He was lonesome, and more and more 
he longed for home and its many endearing charms. Finally he 
ate his lunch slowly and meditatively. Soon he relished it, 
and he was refreshed. His spirits became more buoyant, 
and the depressing sensations gradually left him. The world 
was more charming and his courage was more daring. Ambi¬ 
tion again humbly mounted the throne and he continued his 
journey. 

It was almost dark when Dudley first sighted his grand¬ 
father’s commodious farm house. The hoary forest trees 
almost screened the patriarch’s home from view. He had been 
thrice married, and his more recent wife was not a lover of 
children—especially grandchildren. She pronounced the 
<f brats” too knowing, too bold, too “previous,” too “nosey,” 
too much at home. However, Dudley was cordially received 
and shown every courtesy, but when on the morrow he begged 
for a job, the atmosphere became suddenly frigid. As long 
as he wa3 paying a friendly visit of a few days’ duration, he 
was welcome; but when there was a possibility of his becom¬ 
ing a continuous guest beneath his grandfather’s roof, he 
was no longer welcome. 

Dudley quickly sensed the frigidness, and it chilled him— 
chilled the very marrow in his bones. He quietly but quickly 
arose and went to the bam to hide the tears that came into 
his blue eyes. His father and grandfather had virtually told 
him that he was not wanted. He was lonesome, dejected, dis¬ 
heartened. He did not dream that he would be unwelcome at 
his grandfather’s hearthside, and he was completely crushed. 

In truth it does seem that the majority of mankind are 
selfish and mercenary; that, if you do not give as much as 
you take in this world, you are not welcome. Yes, everybody 
must pay—must pay in money, or property, or nobility, or 
kindness, or social ascendency, or love, or breezy conversa¬ 
tion, or gold, or beauty; else he is railroaded away to the county 
farm. It is an inexorable law of life that you must give as 
much as you take, that you must pay for what you get, else 
you are “persona non grata.” 


44 


THE LONGDENS 


Dudley not only ate sparingly of the evening meal, but he 
had little to say. His buoyancy and his good-cheer were gone. 
After supper he politely announced that, if they would ex¬ 
cuse him, he would retire that he might continue his journey 
early on the morrow. No regrets were spoken; no questions as 
to his plans or destination were asked, no well-wishes were 
showered upon him and no one wished him godspeed. 

So at break of day on the morrow, Dudley arose, dressed, 
went to his grandfather’s corn-crib, took four large ears of 
yellow corn, deliberately cut the ropes that anchored him to 
the past, an^d started. His lunch was coarse and not very 
nourishing; but he reasoned that he could sustain life for a 
limited time, if necessary, by feeding upon parched corn, 
acorns, and the water that babbled in the brook. True he still 
had the two dollars which his mother gave him, but this was 
his reserve to be used only in a dire extremity. 

Dudley Longden had no plans. He had started, but he did 
not know where. In a way he was drifting, but subconsciously 
he was headed toward the city of New York, the metropolis 
of the world in wealth and commerce and population. It had 
been the ambition of his waking existence to see New York. 
He had read how it had more Jews than Jerusalem, more 
Russians than Petrograd, more Irishmen than Dublin, more 
Germans than Leipsic and he had longed to see this modem 
Babel. But he little realized how big or how far it was. 
His sensibilities were, in a manner, benumbed and he was in¬ 
different. However, there was an unyielding determination in 
his breast, and stubbornness in his heart. Of one thing he was 
sure; he would never again, so long as he had health and 
strength, annoy his father or his grandfather with his pres¬ 
ence. It was not exactly a feeling of bitterness, it was an un¬ 
wavering determination in the secret recesses of his heart that 
in the future he would annoy no man with his presence, lest 
he might not be welcome. He had burned the bridges behind 
him, and his one ambition now was to enter the city of his 
dreams and succeed. 

On and on he went, and after a while he became very, very 
hungry. He was too proud to beg, too honorable to steal, but 
he must have food. In spirit he was not a tramp, but in 
truth he was one, or rather he would have been one had his 
purposes been less honorable and his moral fibre more com¬ 
promising. He soon came to a pretentious farm house. It was 


BREAKING HOME TIES 


45 


an inviting and undoubtedly a prosperous place. He stopped, 
entered the yard and knocked at the kitchen door. A very 
stout woman answered. She had a wicked temper—it was 
written in every line of her bulging physiognomy. She, too, 
was avaricious, her countenance indicated it. Dudley ad¬ 
dressed her courteously: 

"I am not a tramp, lady, but I am hungry.” 

“Then why are you a beggar?” snapped the housewife 
peevishly. 

“I am working my way to New York, mam.” 

“You’re not walkin’, I hope,” she asked. 

“I am.” 

“Now I know you’re nothin’ but a ‘Wearie Willie.’ It’s eight 
hundred miles to New York.” 

“I know it’s a long way, but I’m no tramp. How can a fel¬ 
low ride if ho has no money?” he asked. 

“He kin always stay at home,” she replied. 

“Not so, madam. You are mistaken, I say. I could not 
stay at home.” 

“I tell you that you’re nothin’ but a dirty, lazy, good-fer- 
nothin’ tramp. You can’t fool me.” 

“I beg your pardon, lady — I’m willing to work. I ask no 
charity.” 

“I hain’t never yit seed a tramp what was worth buryin’,” 
she snapped. 

Dudley glanced over his shoulder, saying: 

“You were talking to — ” 

“You.” 

“I beg your pardon, but I have a good mother.” 

“Then you should not have left her,” said the woman. 

“I would not bo hero, had my father and I been able to 
agree.” 

“All boys nowadays air too knowin’. Yes, these here up-to- 
date, good-fer-nothin’ boys air arfully wise.” 

“Can’t you give me a job, good lady? I’m hungry, I tell 
you. I’ll not come into your house if you’re afraid of me.” 

“I’m not afraid of anybody,” answered the housewife as 
she straightened up, threw her head back, and clenched her 
lists; then she continued, “First of all, you need soap and 
plenty of it; second of all, I don’t like yer looks—yer clothes 
air a give-away.” 

“Clothes don’t make a man.” 


46 


THE LONGDENS 


“No, not always—I’ll tell you what I’ll do; you saw up 
that pile of rails out there and I’ll give you somethin’ to eat.” 

Dudley turned, beheld the pile of rails and all but fainted. 
His heart, like Joshua’s sun and moon, stopped. The rail-pile 
resembled a mountain. Tired, hungry Dudley heaved a sigh. 
There must have been twenty wagon-loads of rails in that 
pile, but Dudley was hungry. He accosted the lady: 

“I certainly would be grateful if you should give me my 
lunch first.” 

“Smooth, hain’t you? I’ve been buncoed before,” she 
said. 

“I am weak with hunger; I’ll do better work and more of it 
if you’ll give me a lunch first,” answered Dudley. 

“I tell you, I’ve been ‘worked’ before.” 

“I’ll not take advantage of your kindness. I’m honest. I’m 
true blue.” > 

“That there’s what they all say.” 

“You certainly can’t expect much of a hungry man.” 

“I hain’t expectin’ nothin’ of you, but you git no lunch 
until you do the work. If that hain’t satisfactory to you, 
you kin move on.” 

Dudley saw the utter futility of further argument, and started 
toward the rail-pile with a heavy heart. He was angry, too, 
because his sense of honor and justice had been maligned. He 
had been classed with the crooks and the underworld of so¬ 
ciety. He suddenly turned and said: 

“Pardon me, good lady, but it is people like you that are 
the cause of this so-called ‘tramp-menace’ today. You make 
tramps out of honorable boys and honorable men. If a man 
is denominated a thief and a jailbird, what incentive is there 
to be honorable? In other words if you are generally con¬ 
sidered a scoundrel what inducement is there not to be one? 
You don’t give a fellow half a chance. Many, many people 
in this world are less fortunate than you, and it isn’t their 
fault. My type of Christianity teaches charity, enjoins every¬ 
body to feed the hungry and clothe the naked. 

“Now you kin go. I’m not keepin’ you. I don’t keer to 
hear yer lectures. There’s the gate right down there.” 

“You don’t go the ‘second mile’ do you? You don’t even go 
the ‘first mile.’ ” 

“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. You’ve got 
wheels.” 


BREAKING HOME TIES 


47 


“I’ve got to have something to eat. I could steal, but I’m too 
proud and too honorable. I’m—” 

“How air you! Too proud to steal! I’d hate to lay a 
silver dollar on the walk in front of you and look the other 
way just one second.” 

“Madam, it’s no wonder that socialism and Bolshevism have 
got such a tremendous start in the world. People like you 
are to blame.” 

“I thought you was hungry.” 

“I am, but I thought I had a right to tell people about their 
faults—people don’t hesitate to tell me about mine.” 

“You git off the place if you don’t like my ways. I’ll not 
have another sassy word out of you.” 

“Pardon me, if I have said anything impolite—I did not 
intend to. I’m willing to work, but you certainly expect lots 
of work for your lunches. They must be big and delicious. 
I’ll work an hour and then you can pay me in food what you 
think I have earned.” 

Accordingly Dudley went about his prescribed work. The 
lady slammed the door and went about her work. She was 
a surly, calculating hussy. Dudley worked honestly and in¬ 
dustriously for an hour and a half, and large was the pile 
of wood that he sawed. The men came to dinner from the fields 
with their teams. They regarded Dudley intently and curi¬ 
ously. They smiled and winked at each other as they eagerly 
watched him toil while they were en route to the house. 
They ate their dinner greedily, ravenously, spoke slightingly of 
the landlady’s new boarder, pretended to be angry that the 
job of wood-sawing had been delegated to another, and after a 
while went back to the fields. Dudley sawed wood, paying 
no attention to anyone. Finally he was so weak that he 
could scarcely talk. He went to the house, rapped, and said: 

“Madam, you see what I’ve done—pay me accordingly. Re¬ 
member that I ask no charity.” 

“Don’t be alarmed—you’ll git none here.” 

“I’m not soured on life—I believe the world is good and 
honorable.” 

“I see that you have sawed only a small part of the rail- 
pile,” she remarked. 

“You are the judge and the jury. I’m anxious to know 
how just people are in Pennsylvania,” he said. 

“What if I should give you nothing?” 


48 


THE LONGDENS 


“If your conscience approves such a course, I will be con¬ 
tent. As I said before, such people as you will decide whether 
or not we shall have Bolshevism, or peace and harmony in 
the United States tomorrow. The under class will endure so 
much and no more.” 

The farmer’s wife now reached for a sack in which she had 
placed Dudley’s lunch, took out one-half the contents, and 
defiantly handed the balance to him. He accepted it politely, 
thanked her courteously, and departed. When he had gone 
down the road a few rods he opened the sack to see “what he 
got.” It contained an onion and a piece of stale bread 
upon which was placed a meager amount of doubtful butter. 
Dudley sighed. Tears came into his eyes. He walked on, 
but he was disconsolate, and muttered: 

“This is certainly a tough old world. That woman is a 
designing shrew. She’s a hussy and a vixen and a crook. She 
deserves misfortune; in fact, I wish it upon her.” 

This was, indeed, a rough old world, but on and on Dudley 
went. Finally he came to a creek. It was dusk. He hunted 
and found an abandoned tin can, built a fire, parched some 
corn, ate it ravenously, and put up for the night in a fence 
corner. He was so tired and so weary that he did not awake 
until the sun was a full half hour above the horizon. He hur¬ 
riedly parched some more com and found some sour grass 
which he ate with a relish. How he longed for a cup of 
mother’s cofiiee, and a dozen of mother’s cookies! But these 
were now impossible, and he stoically muttered to himself: 

“Why cherish delights that are forever gone?” 

A new ambition was aflame in his bosom. Many ambitions 
have been extinguished by untoward circumstances and many 
have become a roaring blow-torch—it remained to be seen 
in which category Dudley was to be classified. His ambition 
now was to make the goal even though life itself; was the cost. 
During the coming week Dudley had many experiences; but 
none of them was more harrowing than that of sawing rails 
for an hour and a half for an onion and a piece of bread and 
butter. He persistently continued his course, subsisting 
principally upon acorns, beechnuts, parched corn and a few 
meager lunches which he received as pay for doing an oc¬ 
casional odd job for some housewife along the way. He met 
many rebuffs, had been ordered off the premises many times, 
was assailed by many unkind words, had occasionally been 


BREAKING HOME TIES 


49 


threatened with a loaded gun, had often been attacked by 
growling, barking canines but he had remained sweet and 
serene through it all. He was certainly being disciplined in 
the school of hard knocks. 

One Sabbath morning he came to a church. The parishioners 
were just gathering for services. Dudley, too, entered. The 
country folk seemed very sociable among themselves and 
chatted very freely. They turned and gazed intently, if not 
rudely, at Dudley as he entered and then they went by on the 
other side. His clothes were too faded, too threadbare, too 
ragged, too much out of date. His beard needed a shave too 
much and his face a cake of soap. After church Dudley 
awkwardly arose and waited for someone to speak to him. 
He craved companionship; he hungered for some good mother 
to speak a word of encouragement to him. No one came near 
and he was lonesome. How he wanted to talk to somebody! 
Even a bark from Collie or any other dog would have been 
gratifying. But the members one by one quitted the country 
church and finally Dudley was alone with the janitor. Dudley 
accosted him: 

“Going to lock up ?” 

“Yep,” answered the janitor indifferently, jingling his keys 
as he spoke as a hint for him to get out. 

“Could you tell me where I might get something to eat?” 

“We work for what we git around here,” answered the man. 

“You never help a fellow up? Never give a boost when a 
fellow’s down?” asked Dudley. 

“This here community don’t believe in feedin’ tramps.” 

“I’m no tramp, but that makes no difference—some tramps 
are just as good as some church members.” 

“Who was a tellin’ you?” asked the janitor. 

“I thought charity was a part of Christianity.” 

“Not around here—it’s all we kin do to pay the preacher.” 

“I’m not a tramp; I’m a farmer boy on my way to New 
York in search of a job.” 

“Better stay away from that there place, son, if you know 
what’s good fer yer boneyard—it’s too big fer you; you’ll 
git gobbled up.” 

“It can’t be any chillier there than it is in western Pennsyl¬ 
vania,” said the boy. 

The janitor now put the key in the door, saying abruptly: 

“Well, it’s time to go, partner.” 


50 


THE LONGDENS 


“Pardon me; I didn’t mean to delay you.” 

The janitor made no answer, locked the door, and soon was 
going down the road whistling vociferously. Dudley was not 
embittered. His brief conversation with the janitor had done 
him a world of good. He went plodding on. He thought noth¬ 
ing of the coldness and selfishness of this little country con¬ 
gregation. Such was life. He had before heard congregations, 
and preachers, too, sing: “Blest Be the Tie that Binds,” and 
straightway en route home from church refuse a poor man a 
small basket of apples that were wasting in the orchard. 
Dudley had a long time since learned that such is the greed 
and selfishness of human nature—his own father was a living 
example. Yes, Dudley was now accustomed to rebuffs; he was 
hardened to disappointments. 

At last he reached the central portion of the great state of 
Pennsylvania. It was the first of September, just one month 
since he so affectionately bid his dear mother goodby. He 
had now, in a way, become inured to this plodding, shifting, 
changing sort of life. He was no longer looking at the things 
behind, but was pressing forward toward the goal. 

He now came to a dairy farm with its pretentious, newly- 
painted bams and its herd of immaculate Holsteins. The 
landlord was filling his silos. Dudley approached and frankly 
accosted him: 

“Sir, are you one of those fellows who are willing to give 
a boy a chance?” 

“What kind of a chance?” asked the farmer. 

“A chance to work,” answered the boy. 

“That depends upon the boy.” 

“I’m honest. I’m a farmer boy and I’m hungry.” 

“I’ve never seed a tramp yit what wasn’t hungry.” 

“I’m not a tramp, if you please.” 

“You certainly look it.” 

“I have a good mother, sir. In fact she’s the best woman 
that ever lived.” 

“But jist why did you leave her?” 

“My father is an unreasonable man. He wouldn’t give me a 
chance. He wouldn’t give me a cent and I worked hard for 
him,” explained Dudley. 

“Where air you goin’ ?” 

“Do you blame me for leaving home?” 


BREAKING HOME TIES 


51 


“I haven’t heard yer father’s side of the question. He might 
tell a different story,” said the man. 

“He couldn’t and tell the truth.” 

“Where air you goin’? Do you know, er don’t you keer?” 

“I’m going to New York,” aid Dudley. 

“New York? That’s no place fer a boy—you’ll wish a hun¬ 
dred times that you had never seed the place.” 

“It’s too late now to change my notion. My plans are all 
made. I’ve got too much grit to turn back. I can’t any more 
than starve. I’m going to show father that I’m no oyster.” 

“Have you ever worked any on a farm?” 

“All my life, sir; I’ll do you an honest day’s work.” 

“I’ve been fooled so often.” 

“I’ll sleep in the barn. You can bring me a lunch in a 
sack after you finish your meal. I want a job for only two 
weeks, and then I’ll move on. I need and must have some 
spending money.” 

“How much money did your father give you before you 
left home?” 

“He didn’t even give me a smile,” said the boy ruefully. 

“How long have you been on the road?” 

“More than four weeks.” 

The dairyman thought a moment and answered: 

“I’m goin’ to give you a chance, but if I ketch you a stealin’ 
even an ear of corn, er if you git smart er shiftless even once, 
I’ll juggle you around some.” 

“All I ask is a chance,” said Dudley. 

“Can you handle a team? Do you know how to feed and 
curry a hoss? Did you ever milk a cow?” asked the farmer. 

“I can do all these.” 

“Do you expect pie and cake every meal?” 

“I didn’t have such at home. A little bread and butter and 
a piece of meat in a sack now and then, and occasionally a 
cup of coffee is all that I ask.” 

“You talk fair enough.” 

“I’ll eat and sleep at the barn,” added the boy. 

“What air you goin’ to charge me?” 

“Whatsoever you decide that I am worth—I believe you’ll 
be fair.” 

“You may hitch up the bays and begin haulin’ corn to the 
silos.” 

Dudley made no answer, but promptly obeyed. He worked 


52 


THE LOHGDEHS 


hard that day, eared well for the horses at eventime, ate his 
lunch, went to sleep on the hay in the cattle barn, arose at 
break of day, fed, curried and harnessed all the horses, and 
was waiting for orders when his boss came to the barn. He 
addressed Dudley cordially: 

“You’re certainly an early riser.” 

“If you’ll get me a milk bucket or two, I’ll do some of the 
milking while you eat your breakfast,” replied Dudley cheer¬ 
fully. 

“You’re certainly makin’ a good start.” 

Thus the days went swiftly by. Dudley was always polite 
and always did more than was expected of him. He ate at 
the barn and did not consider himself too proud or too 
good to sleep at the bam. Finally the two weeks were gone, 
and Dudley addressed his employer as follows: 

“Well, I believe my two weeks are up. I certainly thank 
you for your kindness.” 

“You are not goin’?” asked his employer. 

“Yes, I’m going. I do not wish to wear my welcome out. 
I trust that I have done you some good. I certainly thank 
you for your consideration, and if your boy ever comes to 
Hew York, and gets stranded, I’ll certainly come to his rescue, 
if I hear about it.” 

“After all, Dudley, we’re all made of sand and clay, and 
there’s not very much difference in us. Hone of us has a 
reason to be proud, unless we’re honorable.” 

“Oh, I think there’s lots of difference in people. At least 
I have found it so; some people are made of hardpan—they’re 
stingy; some of black loam—they’re wealthy; some of chaffy 
soil—they’re drones and non-producers; some of sandy soil— 
they’re choleric and burn up easily; some of a combination of 
all these—they’re the salt of the earth.” 

“I guess, Dudley, there’s more difference than I thought.” 

“Really, you’re the only ‘white’ man that I have met in 
thirty days of travel.” 

“Thank you, but I’ll give you two dollars a day, if you’ll 
stay with me this winter.” 

“You’re a real gentleman, and I should like to stay with 
you, but it would wreck all my plans—I’m going to try to be 
somebody.” 

“I feel sure, Dudley, that you’ll succeed. You have the 


BREAKING HOME TIES 


53 


spirit that wins, but if you’ll stay with me this winter, you 
can eat and sleep at the house.” 

“I certainly thank you, but I simply can’t. I’d be losing 
too much time.” 

“Anyway, Dudley, stay with me two more weeks.” 

Dudley counted the days and weighed all the probabilities, 
and answered after several moments: 

“You’ve given me a square deal; you’ve treated me like a 
father, and I’m going to stay with you two weeks longer—we 
ought to get your work in pretty fair shape in two weeks— 
but I’ll continue to eat and sleep at the barn. This will save 
your wife considerable work. I have too much respect for 
my mother to cause any woman any unnecessary trouble.” 

“You’re certainly considerate, Dudley; yes, you’re a prince.” 

“This arrangement will not seriously hinder my plans, and 
I feel that I owe it to you to help you all that I can.” 

In a few short days it was a morning in early October. Two 
weeks had come and gone. Time speeds rapidly on when a 
man does his best, and lingers when he idles. 

Dudley had wrapped his meager personal effects in his 
red bandana, and was ready to continue the journey. His 
employer was present and counted him out fifty dollars. 
Never before had Dudley seen so much money. Naturally, he 
was not only astonished, but he was profoundly and profusely 
grateful, saying: 

“It has been two long months since I left home, but this is 
the first time that I have been treated like a ‘white’ man. I 
certainly thank you. I’ll not only remember you, but I’ll 
endeavor to pass this kindness on to someone who has been 
as unfortunate as I.” 

The employer answered feelingly: 

“It is a part of my religion, Dudley, to give every worthy 
boy a chance. Perhaps I don’t shout ‘Amen’ as loud in the 
meetin’ house as some, but I try to follow the Golden Rule. 

I once was a boy, and I think I know what it means to get 
a square deal. Goodby and good luck to you, Dudley. May 
God bless you.” 

Dudley was pleased. He found one man who was grateful, 
one man who seemed to appreciate what he had tried to do for 
him, one man whose words were full of encouragement, which 
is worth as much to a boy who is down and out as money. 
He carefully consigned the fifty dollars to his inmost pocket 


54 


THE LONGDENS 


and regretfully started—yes, regretfully, for life seems to be 
an unbroken series of broken friendships and heart-rending 
disappointments. But Dudley could not tarry longer—he had 
started toward the world metropolis, the goal of his mounting 
ambitions. His earthly possessions now aggregated fifty-two 
dollars which he guarded diligently day and night, for this 
money, plus some more, was the lever by which he expected 
to raise himself. 


YII 


University Life 

Vacation days were over and it was time for study and 
application. College students from all over this broad land 
had returned to their universities with their customary air of 
self-importance. They are always buoyant, always aggressive, 
always mildly but innocently egotistical. Like Alexander the 
Great, they are proud of their achievements and eager for more 
worlds to conquer. It is difficult to say whether college life 
instills this spirit of conquest, or merely draws unto itself a 
self-confident type of young hopefuls. 

Belmont University was situated some sixty miles north of 
New York City. The returning students were greeting one 
another cordially and with glowing words of good-cheer. A 
spirit of geniality pervades every student body, and the warm 
and lasting friendships that spring up in college find their 
counterpart nowhere else upon old mother earth. Nowhere 
can you find an aggregation of young men and young women 
whose ambitions, aspirations, and ideals are so pure and so 
noble as those of a body of college students. Naturally a black 
sheep is to be found in every flock—a sheep whose ideals are 
perverted and perverse, whose conceptions are sordid and 
depraved, but he is the exception and not the rule. The 
average intelligence and idealism of a student body is un¬ 
surpassed. 

College students may be mildly officious and harmlessly 
egotistical; they may expect the everyday man to sidestep for 
them; they may have the idea that the world is theirs for the 
asking; they may think that all creation is expectantly and 
breathlessly awaiting the day of their graduation: neverthe¬ 
less, they are a good-natured group of scouts as harmless as 
doves, as innocent as babes, and the day of their disillusion¬ 
ment will speedily come when they enter the world of affairs. 
It is then that they will realize that they count but one in 
the mad rush for prestige and power; it is then that they will 
fully realize that they have been beaten by a little, dried-up, 

55 


56 


THE LONGDENS 


red-headed lad who has never seen a college or heard the 
voice of a college professor. 

College is a little world of its own. It is cut off and out of 
touch with the everyday world. It is segregated and in a sense 
it lives unto itself. Still it has the same sharp competition 
for social honors, the same mad rush for positions of prefer¬ 
ment, the same struggles for leadership that characterize the 
outside world. It has to battle against the same social bar¬ 
riers and castes that permeate and exist in the real world of 
affairs. While there prevails a spirit of mutual helpfulness 
there is also effective that other sterner, but no less exacting 
law that separates the fit from the unfit. 

College life at Belmont gradually became more vivacious 
and more animated as the new students became better ac¬ 
quainted with college ways and college life. Class spirit soon 
manifested itself. Class rivalry became paramount. Class 
yells were given with vigor and class enthusiasm ran high; all 
of which is a harmless diversion which the ultra-conservative, 
who has lost the bloom and vivacity of youth, denominates 
“foolish/” “crazy,” “devilish.” But the great unwashed have 
forgotten that times have changed. They do not understand 
the laws of effervescence, especially the laws of youthful 
effervescence. 

Surplus human energy will always assert itself some way 
some how. Father probably did not do what his son is now 
doing, but he probably did things that were more devilish and 
more infernal. 

It was not long until the sophomore ladies attended chapel 
accoutered in black sunbonnets and aprons trimmed in old 
gold. These were the sophomore class colors. This quite 
naturally aroused the class spirit of the freshmen to a fever 
heat. It is proverbial that freshmen and sophomores are 
avowed and bitter rivals. The ladies in sunbonnets were a 
queenly aggregation. In truth their dignity and their modesty 
held the radical, untutored freshmen at bay. 

While the freshmen were organizing and trying to decide 
what course to pursue, they were frustrated by the disconcert¬ 
ing news that the sophomore class colors were fluttering at 
the top of the flagpole which was near the entrance to East 
College. No greater disgrace can be heaped upon a class than 
that of an adversary’s class colors proudly floating above 
its own. The freshmen hurriedly rushed outside where, dis- 


UNIVERSITY LIFE 


57 


heartening though it was, they plainly saw the sophomore 
class colors defiantly soaring and floating and fluttering tri¬ 
umphantly at the top of the flagpole. Naturally, this touched 
oft the dynamite. Both sides at once brought up their heavy 
artillery. It was the signal for the beginning of the annual 
class “scrap,” which takes place each year between the fresh¬ 
man and sophomore classes. There was a concerted and a 
mighty rush to get possession of the rope at the base of the 
flagpole. The freshmen were thoroughly determined that the 
sophomore class colors should not float on high. The sopho¬ 
mores banked themselves in solid formation about the base 
of the pole and prepared for a vigorous defense. On came 
the raw-boned, over-confident freshmen like a drove of mad¬ 
dened buffaloes. They undeniably had the courage and the 
determination, but they lacked strategy and finesse. They 
might well have been denominated an unfinished product. 

It is indeed marvelous, if not unbelievable, what a year 
of college will do to a student. He enters, green, awkward, 
diffident, helpless, poorly clothed, not very promising, only 
partly civilized, with many things to learn; he emerges from 
college at the end of the college year a veritable Chesterfield. 
His modesty is gone, he parts his hair in the middle, he 
cultivates a mustache, uses a cane, wears silk champagne hose 
and nonchalantly smokes one cigarette after another in quick 
succession. When he entered, he was a diamond in the rough, 
but one year has polished the diamond until it glistens like 
frost on a cold winter night. 

In this class scrap the diamond had not yet been worked 
upon; it had not undergone the polishing process. No, these 
freshmen had nothing to recommend them save a rough and 
ready spirit to conquer and overcome. They swept down upon 
the more astute sophomores like an untamed hurricane. It 
was a battle royal. Hats were smashed and crumpled until 
nothing remained of papa’s hard-earned ten-dollar greenback 
but the rim. Collars and neckties were ruthlessly jerked off 
and summarily demolished. Coats were split in twain, noses 
were bleeding, but the battle still continued. It was great 
sport. Cruel? Ruthless? Why so? What young man would 
bow the knee and surrender his colors when scores of ladies 
fair are watching, and cheering, and shouting “bravo” from the 
college windows on high? Any ambitious young sir would, 


58 THE LONGDENS 

under such circumstances, rather be a dead lion than a live 
canine. 

As is always the case in combats of this sort, some of the 
smiling young hopefuls were not masters of themselves. They 
could not control their hair-trigger tempers. They were not 
greater than he that taketh a city. Their tempers flamed, and 
fistic encounters followed, presumably in fun; but really in 
earnest. They were joking on facts. More noses soon were 
bleeding, and more teeth were soon extracted, but painlessly— 
no! 

Everybody now was panting. No one would acknowledge 
defeat. Suddenly another onslaught occurred. The same 
spirit that stopped the Germans at Belleau Wood and started 
them in a goose-trot back toward home, was now manifest 
among these college boys—the spirit that knows no defeat, the 
spirit that will not surrender. Now all went sprawling upon 
the ground where they puffed and wallowed and wriggled. 
More clothes were torn, more faces were bleeding, more teeth 
were extracted, more of papa’s hard-earned money was tom 
up. A few individuals now became vicious, lost their heads 
and wanted to fight, kill, destroy. 

Finally a sophomore noticed that his class was consider¬ 
ably out-numbered. He decided that it was useless to try 
to hold the fort longer, so he stealthily, but quickly hauled 
down his beloved colors while the others were engaged in 
entertaining their partners. He was sure that he was unseen. 
He seized his class flag and ran toward the entrance to East 
College. He hurriedly entered the hall of learning and was 
just starting up the stairs when he was surprised and halted 
by a fleet-footed freshman who had witnessed and wisely 
understood the sophomore’s strategy. The other classmen 
quickly followed, and soon they, too, had engaged in the 
skirmish. A veritable tug-of-war ensued. They see-sawed 
to and fro like a drunken man. The stairway balustrade was 
unable to stand the strain and gave away with a tremendous 
crash. The students fell upon one another in a great heap. 
The president of the university, a kindly, logical man of an in¬ 
tellectual cast with an unusually prominent forehead and a 
noble mein, appeared at the top of the stairs. He had more 
than once warned the students to be careful to remember who 
they were, where they were, and what they represented, but 
his admonition failed this time. He snapped his fingers vigor- 


UNIVERSITY LIFE 


59 


ously and spoke harshly, but his words like some of the seed 
of the sower, fell upon barren soil. The students were now 
upon their feet again and the combatants surged back and 
forth like the waves striking the breakers. How the battle 
line weaved! How the battlers tugged and lunged and 
pulled! But give away? Never! Surrender? Never! Ac¬ 
knowledge defeat? Never! The spirit of conquest and love 
of victory was paramount. It was in-born and deep-rooted. 
It was instilled at Valley Forge; it flowered in a great civil 
war; it boldly and defiantly asserted itself at Santiago and St. 
Mihiel. 

Robert Tadmore attended college at Belmont. He was a 
sophomore, and he was one of the aggressors in the class 
scrap. Now he and another rich man’s son were furious, en¬ 
raged. They were spoiled children. Much money, like much 
wine, had made them mad. They were pampered sons. Money 
and what money could buy had made fools of them. Young 
Tadmore at the first opportunity seized his antagonist by the 
throat and shook him—shook him as puss shakes a mouse— 
shook his antagonist until he was limp and gasping. Robert 
was now alarmed lest he had severed the fragile thread of 
life, but he was so angry and so excited that he gripped his 
assailant more resolutely. Nearby battlers saw what was hap¬ 
pening, and, fearing a tragedy, they separated these two 
infuriated sons of wealth. Each was bleeding profusely; each 
was panting like a wounded stag at bay; but neither would 
surrender. Such is college life. Such is human life. Such is 
one of the many unfortunate happenings that characterize a 
life of ease and luxury. 

But the freshmen finally got possession of the sophomore 
class colors and spirited them away. The diffident, freshman 
ladies applauded vigorously and shouted “bravo,” “bravo,” ex¬ 
ultantly; while the sophomore ladies submissively rolled their 
sunbonnets in their aprons and quietly stole away as does the 
vanquished always. The class yell of the victorious freshmen 
could be heard far and near as this or that victor went scoot¬ 
ing across the campus like an Indian warrior making prepa¬ 
rations for a pow-wow after a successful marauding expedi¬ 
tion. 

Soon the fury of the storm had abated; soon the injured had 
been “amachied” and poulticed and bandaged; soon all was as 
quiet as the desert, save the recitals of the many thrilling ex- 


60 


THE LONGDENS 


periences of the victors. The peacemakers were very busy that 
evening, for many bruises had to be poulticed; many clothes 
had to be patched or made new; many choleric brothers with 
bleeding feelings had to be placated; else there would be strife 
and discord in every fraternity clubhouse in Belmont. 

It was now near eight o’clock in the evening. The freshmen 
knew that war had been declared, and that articles of peace 
had not yet been signed, so they followed up their advantage 
with vigor. They formed in groups of six, each of which 
waited in some dark alley or ambushed behind some gnarled 
trees awaiting the advent of some misguided, luckless sopho¬ 
more. Some twenty-five unfortunate second-year fellows were 
in this manner picked up, securely tied, loaded into waiting 
automobiles, and quickly spirited away to parts unknown. 
When the machines had gone some twenty miles, they were 
stopped, and their captives were compelled to alight; thence 
they were escorted through a dense woods and across a deep 
ravine to a secluded, barren valley where the twenty-five cap¬ 
tured braves were tied to trees with clothes-lines and trunk 
straps and captured class colors. All night long they were 
tethered thus. All night long they were guarded and taunted 
and ridiculed by the exultant freshmen. Robert Tadmore was 
one of the captured and one of the taunted. He was so angry 
that he could think of nothing mean enough or vile enough to 
say; he cursed, he foamed, he gritted his teeth, he stewed, but 
all to no avail. He was tied hand and foot. The freshmen 
were resolute and unrelenting. They could not be coaxed, 
bribed, or bluffed. They simply tormented young Tadmore all 
the more. 

Finally it was break of day. The grey in the east 
gradually changed to saffron. It was then that the freshmen 
formed a circle and, in solemn procession, two abreast marched 
about each uncomfortable sophomore singing that classic dirge, 
“Old Grimes is Dead.” After this, the most touching portion 
of the ceremony, had been concluded, they shaved the crown 
of each unhappy sophomore’s head and painted his cheeks 
with nitrate of silver, which would undeniably leave its 
finger-prints for many a day. 

After this weird and most unusual ceremony had been 
performed, the autos of the jubilant freshmen were started 
that they might get away quickly should they so desire. They 
then loosed the most even-tempered and most harmless sopho- 


UNIVERSITY LIFE 


61 


more who, in turn, was given the privilege of freeing his 
comrades in misery after the freshies were gone. The first- 
year fellows hurriedly sought their machines and started 
toward Belmont, leaving the sophomores to reach their alma 
mater as best they could. 

The sophomores—the tired, hungry, famished, humiliated 
sophomores—were now strangers in a strange land. Fortun¬ 
ately a few of them had money. With this they bought milk 
and eggs and bread and butter; but when they finally reached 
Belmont, they resembled a tattered, footsore, nondescript con¬ 
tingent of Coxey’s army. 

The wily freshmen remained in the offing for a few days, 
allowing the more impulsive sophomore hotspurs to cool off 
and become reconciled to their humiliation which undoubtedly 
was grievous and painful to contemplate. 


VIII 


Dudley Meets a Stranger 

Three weeks after Dudley earned the fifty dollars that he 
consigned to a secret place in the recesses of his ragged clothes, 
he was still persistently pushing on toward the metropolis. 
He had neither added to nor taken from his reserve. Dudley 
had never before known the joy of possession, so naturally 
this fifty dollars was a pleasure unspeakable to him. 

It was one of those delightful mornings in late October 
when the atmosphere refreshes and invigorates, when it is a 
joy to live and a pleasure to work. However, the roads were 
dusty, and Dudley was getting tired of the daily grind. It 
was telling upon him and he was becoming debilitated, jaded, 
enervated. 

Everything now indicated that he was nearing the confines 
of some big city. The frequency of passing automobiles, the 
numerous signboards, the myriad telephone poles, the count¬ 
less telegraph wires, and the broad cement highways all indi¬ 
cated that he w T as approaching no mean city. 

It was mid-afternoon when Dudley overtook a nondescript 
lad of questionable lineage. He was a boy of about Dudley’s 
age, very talkative, very officious, and shrewd beyond his years. 
He’had been buffeted and booted about by a greedy, selfish 
world so much and so long that it had made him cunning and 
calculating. His unsteady blue eyes mirrored a soul with 
many scars. Tobacco juice stained his irregular teeth and 
oozed from the corners of his drooping mouth. His com¬ 
plexion was sallow, which probably was the result of too many 
cigarettes, or too little soap. He accosted Dudley cordially: 

“Where air you goin’, sonny?” 

“To the city,” answered Dudley laconically. 

“Ever been over there?” 

“Never.” 

“I guess hit’s some burg,” said the wayfarer. 

“You’ve never been there ?” asked Dudley. 

“Not yit,” answered the stranger untruthfully. 

62 


DUDLEY MEETS A STRANGER 


63 


“Do you know how far it is?” 

“A feller back here a ways was a sayin’ it was ten miles to 
the city limits, but forty miles to Broadway.” 

“Whew! Thirty miles from the city limits to Broadway I 
Some city!” 

“Yes, and they say, too, look out fer pickpockets.” 

“Pickpockets?” questioned Dudley. 

“Yep; they’re as thick as ‘skeeters’ in the marsh lands in 
August.” 

“What do they do to a fellow?” 

“Oh, they hold him up when he’s a lookin’ right square at 
’em. I ’gpect we’d better stay perty close together, pard, er 
they’ll git both of us.” 

“In broad daylight?” asked Dudley. 

“I’d say and if you don’t dig up, they’ll make a cornmeal 
sieve out of you.” 

“Here’s hoping that we don’t meet any of them.” 

“I’m not afeered. You stay close to me, and I’ll pilot you — 
I know the game,” said the stranger. 

“I thought you’d never been to New York.” 

“I hain’t, but I’ve been in tougher places than New York.” 

“I’m just a farmer boy,” said Dudley. 

“That’s what I thought. Now the main thing, sonny, is 
always to keep yer hand on yer pocketbook.” 

“FU do that all right,” replied Dudley unsuspectingly a3 
he involuntarily placed his hand over his money. 

“How much chink have you got?” 

“Fifty-two dollars.” 

“Fifty-two dollars? Gee! we’ll have to be keerful er they’ll 
git that.” 

“Maybe I’d better put it in my shoes,” said Dudley doubt¬ 
fully. 

“Whatever you think’s best—kin you change a twenty fer 
me? I don’t like to git big money changed in public places— 
some feller might be a watchin’, you know.” 

“I can give you fives,” answered Dudley accommodatingly as 
he fished his roll of greenbacks out of its mysterious hiding: 
place. 

After the change was properly and correctly made, the 
stranger cautiously observed: 

“I ’spect we orten to try to work the city before morain’.” 

“You know best,” said Dudley. 


04 


THE LONGDENS 


“Well, it’s almost night now, and by the time we git a 
lunch, it'll be time to go to roost,” said his companion. 

‘‘I’ve been working my way through, and by careful financ¬ 
ing, I've saved some money.” 

“Let me tell you, it’s perty tough sleddin’ along here, pard— 
it’s been ‘worked' so much, you know.” 

“I dislike to break on my big money—I call it my reserve.” 
“That there's a good idear.” 

“But well have to have a lunch,” reasoned Dudley. 

“Never mind. I'll buy the lunch,” answered the stranger. 
“You’re certainly a clever chap.” 

“What does that there pin mean what you’ve got on?” 

“Oh, nothing.” 

“Then why ere you a wearin’ it? G. F.” 

“Oh, it's a pin that a bunch of us kids wore back home.” 
“It’s made of—?” 

“Just pieces of wire.” 

“G. F.—George the First. Grand Fishin’, Game Follow¬ 
ers.” 

“Oh, you couldn’t guess it in a hundred years, and I can’t 
tell you, for it’s a secret.” 

Here the conversation ended as the two entered a suburban 
restaurant where the stranger ordered ham and eggs and 
coffee for two. After they had eaten the lunch and quitted the 
eating place, Dudley eulogized: 

“My! that was certainly a fine lunch; the best IVe tasted 
since I left home.” 

“The best’s none too good f er usans—we don't live but once.” 
“You have it figured just right.” 

“Say, pard, it’s a giftin' dark already—let's find a hotel 
and put up fer the night. Do you ever drink, er gamble, 
er—" 

“Never! and you'd better leave such people alone,” inter¬ 
posed Dudley confidentially. 

“You kin say what you please, stranger, but them sort of 
people have been the kindest folks in the world to me. 
They hain't never yit turned me away hungry, er thro wed me 
out in the snow er the cold. They've never yit refused to give 
me an old coat, er a drink, er a kind word. They’ve certainly 
been a friend to me when I was clean down and out; and that’s 
the time, I tell you, that a feller needs a friend,” 

“I'm a church member," said Dudley firmly. 


DUDLEY MEETS A STRANGER 


66 


“A church member! Ilchl I’d rather go to hell with the 
gambler# and the saloon keeper# and all the rest of their 
clan# than go to heaven with Home of these here hard-shelled 
church member#. Why, theykl want to charge yon toll when 
you go stumblin’ through the Pearly Gates. They woruldn’t 
give you a drink of water if you was on fire and burain’ up.” 

“They’re not all that way.” 

“Then the generous ones died before I was born. At least 
I’ve found ’em as skeerse as grasshoppers in hell. When a 
feller is a prosperin’, he don’t need no help; but when he a 
shiverin’ with the cold and with hunger, then’s when he needs a 
bettor feller than a church member.” 

“The central idea of the church is all right,” argued Dudley. 

“If it ever reaches the klown-and-outers,’ it’s got to take off 
its coat and git acquainted and mix with the underworld. It’ll 
not git contaminated, if it’s all right to start with,” said 
the other. “Say, I’m not goin’ to spend fifty cents fer a bed 
in a hotel,” he added. 

“Nor me,” said l>udley. 

“Let’s find a barn to sleep in — it’s too cold tonight to sleep out 
in the open.” 

“Anything suits me.” 

Accordingly, after considerable hunting, they found an 
abandoned barn, into the loft of which these two unfortunates 
climbed and put up for the night. Dudley was more tired than 
usual, and immediately he was fast asleep. He did not awake 
until break of day. He, half asleep, accosted his friend: 

“Hoy! hey there 1” 

No response. He holloaed louder: 

“Say there! Where are you?” 

No answer. He rubbed his eyes vigorously and looked 
about drowsily, but his friend did not seem to be there. 
Dudley arose and slowly descended into the alley. His friend 
was nowhere to bo seen. Evidently he had moved on to other 
and moro luxuriant pastures. Ho involuntarily felt for hia 
money. It was gone. He pinched his arm to make sure 
that he was awake — perhaps he was dreaming and was walking 
in hia sleep. He certainly was awake. Could it be possible 
that ho had been duped? His friend was gone and hia shecklee 
were gone — the conclusion was inevitable; he had been 
“worked.” lie still was not satisfied, so he again searched 
the premises — his pal was nowhere to be found. He carefully 


66 


THE LONGDENS 


went through his pockets again—even the two dollars which 
his mother gave him were gone. Tears came into his eyes. 
He was heartbroken. He descended to the ground a third time, 
but there seemed to be no evidence which would at all indicate 
which way his friend had gone. 

“He is a shark and a crook,” he muttered to himself, a I’m 
too confiding, too frank, too credulous, I guess. A wise man 
knows nothing, has nothing and says nothing.” 

He made a last ascent to the barn loft with the faint, for¬ 
lorn, unpromising hope that he might find some trace of his 
money. A large, dirty piece of cardboard attracted his at¬ 
tention. It was lying near the spot where he slept so serenely. 
Upon it was crudely scrawled: 

“Maybe you can’t read my wrote, 

But everybody rides the goat, 

So why not Dudley?” 

Dudley now knew that he had been duped. He had learned 
a valuable lesson, but it had cost him fifty-two dollars. He 
probably got value received, for now he never would forget it. 
Had it cost nothing he probably would not have remembered 
it. Finally he regretfully left the place of his undoing, but 
it was very much like leaving the grave of a very dear friend. 
However, with a heavy heart, he went plodding on toward 
the city of his dreams. 

Soon he discovered that he was hungry, and that he was 
penniless. He had not felt as helpless since he left his 
grandfather’s home. There was nothing for him to do but 
beg. It makes a wonderful difference in one’s carriage and 
one’s spirit when he is begging with fifty-two dollars in his 
pocket and when he is begging without a cent at his command. 
All self-confidence had now been smothered out. His self- 
respect was gone. He regarded himself as no more than an 
ordinary tramp, for such he was, and he commenced to beg in 
the most unpromising and most unfruitful vineyard along his 
route. He finally secured three pieces of mush which a good 
housewife was in the act of throwing into the garbage can. Dud¬ 
ley ate one piece greedily and saved the other two for his din¬ 
ner, lest fortune might not smile upon him when it was high 
noon. However, near noon he was awarded a job of wheel¬ 
ing in six tons of coal, for which he received one dollar and 


DUDLEY MEETS A STRANGER 


67 


fifty cents, but it took most of this to pay for his supper and 
lodging and breakfast. He muttered as he put the money out: 
“My! but it costs to live in a city.” He was now going in fast 
company and he had to keep up appearances. After break¬ 
fast there were only fifty cents in the exchecquer. 

He was now intuitively afraid of the police who seemed to 
be everywhere and always watching. A score of times he had 
been directed to “move on,” when he had stopped to see the 
street cars go by. He had never before seen a street car, and 
he was trying to discover the modus operandi. He was of the 
same opinion as the Chinaman, and he was just as full of 
wonder. He decided to board the next car, but he failed. He 
had waited on the wrong side of the street and naturally the 
motorman paid no attention to him. He saw his mistake when 
it was too late and assumed the position of a passenger in 
waiting on the opposite side of the street. He attempted to 
board the next car via the motorman’s apartment, but he 
was rudely thrust out. Dudley was now nervous, if not ex¬ 
cited, and attempted to enter the next ear before the passengers 
had alighted, and the conductor almost jerked him in two. 
However, he finally got aboard, and was surprised as well 
as pleased to learn that he could ride twenty miles for five 
cents. 

In a little while Dudley saw great throngs of hurrying peo¬ 
ple. He was sure that something terrible had happened. He 
had never before seen so many people and everybody was in 
a hurry. As the car advanced he saw in the distance the 
dim, misty, outlines of a great statue. Evidently it overlooked 
the bay, for it seemed to be used for long-distance lighting. 
The crowds of humanity grew denser, and the buildings gradu¬ 
ally got higher. They made him dizzy when he attempted to 
count the number of stories. These skyscrapers reminded him 
of the cliff-dwellers of whom he had read so much in the 
books he had borrowed from Mr. McDuffy. The immensity, 
the vastness of things made him shudder. The bigness of 
things caused him to realize his own littleness and insig¬ 
nificance. And the crowds! Where were they going? Where 
did they come from ? What a restless sea of humanity! What 
was their hurry? How cheap human life must be! A million 
human creatures could be swallowed up here and they would 
never be missed. He was fearful that he would lose his 
identity, that he never would be able to segregate himself 


THE LONGDENS 


from this countless throng, that he would never see Water¬ 
loo again with its mud streets, its grimy windows, its kerosene 
lamps, and its wooden store buildings. 

Many people were now detraining, and he concluded that 
he, too, should detrain; but upon inquiry, after he had 
alighted, he was informed that he was yet three miles from the 
Woolworth skyscraper. However he did not hesitate. He 
had no time to lose and at once commenced looking for a job. 
It had always been his boyish ambition to work in a printing 
office. Someway the roar, the thunder, the power, the deter¬ 
mination, the massiveness of the big press appealed to his boy¬ 
ish fancy. So he systematically began asking, begging for a 
job at every printing office along his route, in his onward 
march toward the heart of the metropolis. But everywhere he 
was systematically turned down, and occasionally he was 
pointedly refused admittance. The proprietor of one print- 
shop called him an anarchist, another a hobo, another a 
Bolshevik; but his only response was a smile. His patched 
and faded overalls, his cumbersome plow shoes, his ragged 
straw hat, and his long, unkempt hair failed to inspire con¬ 
fidence. Truly it was discouraging if not disheartening, but 
Dudley had been buffeted and kicked about so much that he 
did not now despair. He was a hardy plant and not a hot¬ 
house flower—he was inured to hardships, to the unkindness 
of human beings, to the rigors of the winters of life. Fre¬ 
quently he was maltreated and cruelly upbraided, but he ever 
remained cheerful, and hopeful, and courteous. It requires 
courage and patience and heroism to work day after day on 
a cloddy, clay, unproductive, hill-side farm under a semi- 
tropical sun; so, too, does it require courage and fortitude 
to withstand the taunts and gibes of an indifferent, selfish, un¬ 
regenerate public. 

Dudley truly resembled Si Plunkard and he knew it, but 
what could he do? Nothing, except push optimistically on, 
which he did eagerly and boldly and good-naturedly. Al¬ 
though everywhere he went, he received an emphatic “No!” 
still he moved persistently and hopefully on. The crowds now 
elbowed him, and bumped him and jostled him so rudely about 
that he longed for Waterloo and the freedom of the farm. He 
was already tired of the city. His dream of New York had 
proved a mirage. He was tired of seeing people and sky¬ 
scrapers and street cars. And the noise was certainly dis- 


DUDLEY MEETS A STRANGER 


69 


concerting, distracting, nerve-wracking. But he was sure that 
he could endure all this, if he could only see his mother and 
Susan Bradstreet for a little while. How different the land¬ 
scape would appear; how beautiful all creation would seem if 
he could only see Susan and his mother! Any place is home 
where your loved ones are, but no palace, nor castle can bring 
that peace and serene contentment, which every normal man 
craves, if his loved ones are not there. 


IX 


Hunting a Job 

Finally it was evening and Dudley spent his last nickel for 
a loaf of bread, after which he wandered about the city with 
his eyes and ears wide open. However he must keep going— 
he too much resembled a vagrant. He dared not stop, police¬ 
men were everywhere. He soon came to a street whose reful¬ 
gent illumination almost dazed him—it was “The Great White 
Way.” It, in some ways, corresponded with his idea of heaven, 
but he did not have time to contemplate or enjoy it—he must 
hurry on. He must find a place to sleep. Darkness was fall¬ 
ing fast. He walked on and on—he knew not which way 
or whither. After a long while he came to countless ricks 
of lumber and long lines of box cars. Suddenly he heard the 
shrill whistle of several panting, puffing little tugs; then the 
deep, bellowing voices of great ocean liners, and he knew 
that he was near the sea. But he was so tired that these 
interested him little—so tired that he climbed into the first 
open box car that he came to and he was asleep almost 
instantly. 

As usual Dudley awoke at break of day. He rubbed his 
eyes vigorously and wondered where he was; but it didn’t 
make any difference—he didn’t care very much. A cold indif¬ 
ference had crept into his heart and head during these last few 
weeks. He did not seem to care what happened or how 
soon; yet he did care. He had merely decided to take life as 
it came and let the cost be what it might. 

Suddenly he heard someone snoring. He looked and saw 
the dim, sombre outlines of six burly tramps asleep in one end 
of the box car. They were as disreputable as pigs and were 
lying prone upon the floor in the dirt and the filth, and were 
certainly a sad eulogy upon the handiwork of their creator. 
Dudley tried to rise quietly and nimbly, but his foot had 
gone to sleep, and he would have fallen had he not caught hold 
of the noisy car door. In his efforts to keep from falling he 
made so much noise that he aroused the six sleeping lords 

70 


HUNTING A JOB 


71 


of questionable lineage. The sextette rubbed its eyes drowsily 
and vigorously and commenced swearing viciously. A big, 
burly fellow accosted Dudley wickedly: 

“Damn you, who said you could sleep in my parlor?” 

“I didn’t know anyone was in here,” answered Dudley good- 
naturedly. 

“Then give me a dollar fer yer bed, damn you, and we’ll 
let you go.” 

“I’m sorry, but I simply couldn’t do it,” said the boy. 

“What’s the trouble now? No lyin’ goes.” 

“I haven’t a cent.” 

“That’s what they all say—come across er I’ll give you a 
solar plexus.” 

“Search me—you can have all you find. A guy got fifty-two 
dollars out of my inside pocket last night and—” 

“That’s what you git fer bein’ a capitalist; spend yer money, 
put it in circulation, git the good out of it, and you’ll not 
git it stole,” interposed the burly tramp. 

Dudley replied mournfully: 

“I never expect to have that much again.” 

“Who did you pick? Wliere did you git it?” asked the 
tramp. 

“I worked for it.” 

“Now don’t lie—we won’t tell. I asked a skinny woman 
fer a cup of coffee yisterday momin’ and she jist shut the 
door in my face. Believe me I’ve got that there gal spotted, 
and she’s a goin’ to lose her pocket book tonight. I hain’t a 
goin’ to stand fer no sich impudence. I’m a gentleman, and 
I’m a-goin’ to be treated like a gentleman.” 

“Where’s your plug hat and stand-up collar and poodle 
dog?” laughed Dudley. 

“Damn sich gentlemen! Say, I’m hungry—somebody’s got 
to buy me a beefsteak this momin’, er I’ll clean up on some¬ 
body,” bellowed the big fellow as he yawned uncouthly, and 
lazily arose, after which he slothfully brushed the dirt off of 
his badly used trousers. 

“Why don’t you git out and work fer your livin’ like I do? 
That’s the way I got my start,” bantered one of the big 
fellow’s chums. 

“I hain’t a goin’ to work fer nobody; I hain’t nobody’s 
flunkey. I’m so weakly that work and I don’t agree. This 


72 


THE LONGDENS 


here world owes me a livin' and hit's got to pay," said the 
big tramp. 

“You'd work before you'd starve, wouldn't you, pard?" 
laughed the pal. 

“Damn you, I'd fight, I'd steal, I’d kill before I'd work." 

“Do you mean it?" 

“Mean it? Hain't this a free country? Can't a feller do 
jist as he pleases? You're mighty right, I mean it. Say! 
I'm a-needin' some breakfast, and I'm a-goin' to have it, er the 
world's a-goin' to come to an end," and he spat noisily. 

“Yes, and you'll git—" 

“I hain't a-keerin’ what I git. Winter’s a cornin' on, and 
what I'm a-lookin’ fer is free board and a furnace-het room." 

“You’d better watch out er that's exactly what you'll git, 
but there’ll be bars in front of the windows." 

“That's prezactly what I want; and that's good enough fer 
any hobo. What do you want, Jocko?" 

“A bank account's good enough fer me." 

“Heh! The bankers would gobble that all up before momin'. 
They're jist like a flock of robins in a cherry tree.” 

“Oh, the government wouldn’t stand fer nothin' like that, 
Tim." 

“Damn the government." 

“Why?" 

“Why, the government hain't honest—nobody's honest." 

“Do you reckon so?” 

“Sure I reckon so. I'd like to blow the whole country up. 
We don't want no government; we don't want no flag, except 
a red one." 

“I guess yer right—what we want is freedom to do as we 
dinged please." 

“Sure, that's what we want. Hurrah for the Bolsheviki! 
Down with the President! Up with ‘Emmie’ Goldman! Hur¬ 
rah fer ‘Emmie’ Goldman. I say, hurrah!” 

“You'd better shut up." 

“I'm not afeered of nobody." 

“No doubt you're a wantin’ to be ‘run in.' " 

“Sure I am fer three er four months. I do somethin' every 
fall to git run in. I tell you steam heat and hot meals don't 
go bad when it's a-snowin' and a-blowin' icebergs outside. But 
last year I had a hard time a gittin' put in. I stole a couple 
loaves of bread, and the old jedge let me go on ‘crowbation,’ 


HUNTING A JOB 


73 


I believe that's what he called it. Then I stole some bananas 
from a dago fruit peddler, but the officers don't like dagos any 
better than an angel likes devilsfood, and they wouldn't 
arrest me. So I grabbed a fat, sassy woman's pocket book, 
and run right square into a policeman. The fat woman was 
right after me a-hollerin' like a Swiss yodler. To make sure 
of gittin' arrested this time, I opened the pocket book while I 
was runnin' and it had jist six cents in it. Of course I got 
four months fer stealin' six cents, jist what I wanted. You bet 
I lived jist like a king durin' them there four months." 

Suddenly a fellow in the opposite end of the car was 
awakened by the noise of Tim's windstorm, and he unex¬ 
pectedly confronted the row of tramps. He wore a white col¬ 
lar, tan shoes, a sack coat and a derby hat. He had crawled 
into the box car after the six tramps had retired, but before 
Dudley had put up for the night. The big, burly tramp started 
toward the white-collared fellow viciously. The latter set his 
teeth, clenched his fists, and showed fight. The big tramp with 
a menacing, domineering look, commanded officiously: 

“Damn you, turn over yer money. Yer money, I say! 
Turn it over now!" 

“I don't have to." 

“Who said you could sleep in my summer kitchen? Who 
invited you?" 

‘'None of your business, I tell you.” 

“Tain't? Did you say it tain't?" 

“You go straight to—" 

At this juncture the big fellow swung viciously at the 
newcomer's head, but he missed him, after which the entire 
gang of tramps ferociously attacked the stranger from all 
sides. Dudley had been merely an interested spectator of 
all that had gone before, but he did not wish to be a witness 
of what was about to follow. He had remained near the 
door of the car playing the role of a good listener which is 
generally a very difficult role to play. But he now decided that 
it was time to go. He did not wish to be a party to a tragedy, 
neither did he wish to be implicated in any way, so he slipped 
out the car door, landed on his feet and ran; but he heard 
someone yell “Help! Help!" when he was some fifty feet 
distant. He presumed that it was the white-collared fellow, 
for he regarded his life as in most imminent danger. Dudley 
hastened, he did not wish to be implicated. Sometimes, you 


74 


THE LONGDENS 


know, the innocent are proved guilty and have to suffer 
for the crimes of the wicked. 

Finally Dudley reached the wharf. He seated himself 
near the water’s edge and eagerly watched the officious little 
tugs as they sailed and darted hither and thither as dexterously 
as bam swallows. All of this was amusing to the boy who 
enjoyed the antics of these little boats immensely. 

Soon an hour had passed. Suddenly he felt an internal 
craving. It was the gnawing of hunger, and he had no money. 
Time, too, was precious—he must have food. He must find a 
job. In truth his conscience now cudgeled his judgment for 
wasting these hours unnecessarily. It was now almost nine 
o’clock. He hurried away, realizing more and more that ap¬ 
pearances were against him. In fact people gazed at him 
steadfastly as he approached, and an amused smile usually 
lighted their countenances as they passed. He decided that, 
after all, Robert was right; that clothes make the man; that 
clothes are a man’s passport when he is among strangers. But 
what could he do ? He had no money, no friends, no credit— 
he was helpless. 

Finally Dudley came to an immense printing establishment. 
The big press was running as smoothly as the babbling brook, 
except that its rumble sounded like the roar of Niagara. It 
was, too, almost human in its activities. It did everything 
but think. Dudley could see it from an alley window. The 
latent power in this piece of complex machinery aroused Dud¬ 
ley’s boyish ambition anew. He went to the front door of the 
establishment and entered, boldly at first, and then he advanced 
with diffidence. Here “The Knickerbocker” was printed. It 
was an international newspaper and had a large circulation 
and a larger influence. After Dudley was inside the build¬ 
ing his eyes danced with surprise and excitement. The 
interior was almost regal in its furnishings and its deco¬ 
rations. Its office apartments were on each side of a central 
aisle, with a private room to the rear of; each office. All 
was finished in genuine mahogany, and the furniture was 
upholstered in genuine leather. The walls were pretentiously 
frescoed, Grecian gods and goddesses were prominent every¬ 
where; the building and its furnishings bespoke wealth and 
affluence, all of which Dudley was not accustomed to. 

His heart fluttered as he glanced about and found himself 
in the presence of so many signs of opulence. He was plainly 


HUNTING A JOB 


75 


abashed; he had never seen anything like it. Scores of well- 
dressed ladies and well-groomed gentlemen were rudely gaz¬ 
ing at him from every angle. He was now plainly dis¬ 
turbed. He could not but glance at his own disreputable 
clothes, tattered and worn, ragged and torn, and feel chagrined. 
Dudley noticed the white enameled name-plates, which, like 
Poe’s “Raven,” perched themselves above each office window. 
Evidently, he concluded, they marked the various bureaus or 
departments that were necessary to the successful publication 
of a metropolitan daily. Far back he saw a name-plate which 
read, “Charles Conkling, Publisher.” He decided that Mr. 
Conkling was the gentleman he wished to see. So he deliber¬ 
ately approached his office window. All the while Dudley’s 
audience was watching him intently. Smiles of ridicule flitted 
across the countenances of these much interested spectators, 
as they regarded this “Si Plunkard” from the West with the 
keenest interest. 

Mr. Conkling was a man with extraordinary business acu¬ 
men. He was of medium stature and had piercing brown 
eyes. He was perhaps fifty, was a prince in appearance, was 
well and correctly groomed, was clean shaven, had brown 
hair streaked with grey, and was an intelligent, considerate, 
self-made, hard-working newspaper man. 

Mr. Conkling regarded Dudley with more than passing 
interest as the farmer boy diffidently stood at his office 
window with inquiring eyes. Dudley’s countenance was in¬ 
nocent although it was sadly in need of a barber and 
the dry cleaner. His tattered straw hat he held bashfully in 
his hand as he alternately and nervously threw his weight 
on one foot and then on the other. His head of hair re¬ 
sembled a shock of bearded wheat, and his clothes! They were 
disreputable. Mr. Conkling’s facial expression betrayed his 
surprise, but in a moment he regained his usual composure 
and queried: 

“What can I do for you, young man?” 

“If you please, sir, I am not a tramp, but I’m hungry. I’ve 
had no breakfast. I’m not begging—all I ask is a chance— 
a chance to make good, a chance to earn some money.” 

“Where are you from?” 

“South-eastern Ohio, sir. I have a good mother, but my 
father and I could not agree. He wouldn’t pay me for the 


76 


THE LONGDENS 


work I did on the farm, even though I did more work than 
anybody he could get.” 

“Are you an anarchist?” 

“I believe firmly in law and order.” 

“But really don’t you feel that the rich are imposing upon 
the poor? Don’t you think the rich have tied a millstone 
about the neck of the poor? Shouldn’t there be a redis¬ 
tribution of wealth? It seems to me that the poor man 
is really not getting a square deal. I should say that there 
rightfully should be a redivision of all the wealth of the world, 
so that every living man would have a fair and an equal chance 
—what do you say?” 

“If there were a redistribution of the wealth of the world 
today, we would not be equal tomorrow. I pronounce the 
rich man a boon and a blessing to society. Really, I don’t 
know what would become of the poor man if it were not for 
the rich man.” 

“But it does seem that no one ought to starve in this land of 
plenty; it does seem that everybody is entitled to a big, fat 
salary, that he might have all the necessities and many of the 
luxuries of life. Something must be wrong. It must be the 
rich man’s fault—who else could be to blame?” asked Mr. 
Conkling. 

“Poverty, according to my way of thinking, is largely the 
fault of the parents. Marriage laws are too lax. Children 
should not be brought into the world when there’s no chance 
for them,” answered Dudley. 

“Many great men were born poor,” said the publisher. 

“Yes, in an earlier day, but not recently. Times have 
changed. A man must be educated today if he wishes to 
compete. What chance does a laboring man have to improve 
his intellect if it is a struggle to make enough money to buy 
bread to feed his hungry children?” 

“But this is a free country,” insisted the publisher. 

“Yes, it is a free country—free so long as you do not abridge 
the freedom of someone else,” said Dudley. 

“I guess you’re not a Bolshevik.” 

“No, I am not, Mr. Conkling, but I’m a boy who hasn’t had 
a chance.” 

“What do you wish to do ?” 

“Work,” stated the boy simply. 


HUNTING A JOB 


77 


“Do you wish to be general manager of ‘The Knicker¬ 
bocker’ ? ” 

“Not at all — not so ambitious as that. I like books. I 
have an intense yearning to know and to learn, but my father 
pronounces education a curse, and he would not permit me to 
buy any books.” 

“What sort of a job, then, do you want?” 

“Any kind, Mr. Conkling. I belong to no union. I merely 
wish an opportunity to ‘make good/ an opportunity to prove 
to you that I’m worthy and dependable.” 

“But those clothes I They certainly do not speak loudly in 
your favor.” 

“But what better could you expect of a young man whose 
father gave him nothing better to wear than his own cast-off 
clothing?” 

“He bought you a new Sunday suit each spring and fall.” 

“I can’t remember of ever getting a new suit of clothes; I’ve 
always worn my father’s overalls.” 

“Your father must be stingy.” 

“Pardon me, but he’s too stingy to make money.” 

“That frequently is the case.” 

“I’m going to make good, Mr. Conkling — I believe Conkling 
is your name.” 

“Yes, my boy, you have it right.” 

“I’m going to try to make something out of myself, and I 
will succeed if determination and intelligence ever win.” 

“I’ve been buncoed so many times — ” 

“Don’t ‘turn me down,’ Mr. Conkling — give a boy a chance.” 

“I guess every boy is entitled to that,” answered Mr. Con¬ 
kling meditatively. 

“I’ll not betray your confidence — try me just ten days.” 

“But those clothes! those clothes! Your countenance is in¬ 
viting and full of promise, but those clothes!” replied Mr. 
Conkling with a ‘get-thee-behind-me’ gesture. 

“Mr. Conkling, clothes are only the whitewash on the fence, 
the paint on the barn, the peeling on the apple.” 

“True; but whitewash frequently sells a piece of property, 
paint often sells an automobile, the peeling on the apple 
always helps you to decide which one you will take.” 

“Yes, but you frequently get fooled when you allow appear¬ 
ances to sway your judgment,” insisted the boy. 

“Very true; nevertheless such is the standard that the 


78 


THE LONGDENS 


world uses, and we must in a measure ‘do what Tildy does.’ ” 
Mr. Conkling hesitated for a moment. The tone of his voice 
indicated that he had something more to say. Soon he con¬ 
tinued : “I’d have to be severe with you.” 

“I don’t care how severe you are.” 

“How much pay would you want?” 

“Whatsoever you see fit to give me.” 

“I might give you only four dollars a week.” 

“I would be content, if you should say that that was all I 
was worth.” 

“You couldn’t rent a room for three times four dollars.” 

“Probably not, but I could sleep upon a cot in the boiler 
room, if you would permit it.” 

“But four dollars wouldn’t pay your cheese and cracker 
bill.” 

“I beg your pardon, but I’d save two dollars each week.” 

“I’m a great believer in discipline: I’d much rather start a 
boy at four dollars a week and raise him to fifteen than start 
him at fifteen and reduce him to four. He would not only be 
in a much better frame of mind, but his ambitions, his aspi¬ 
rations and his hopes would be in the ascendant, and his words, 
his walk, his spirit would be charged with buoyancy and ani¬ 
mation.” 

“I agree,” said Dudley. 

“I’m going to try you out, but the first impertinence, the 
first neglect of duty, the first dishonest move, and you are 
ousted without ceremony. If you ‘make good’ I’ll promote you; 
if you don’t, I’ll fire you.” 

“Fair enough!” 

“Your duties for the present will be those of janitor. Go 
to the basement and tell the fellow in charge down there that 
I’ve promoted him; tell him to show you everything relative to 
the firing of the boilers, after which he will please report at my 
office.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Conkling; I certainly thank you.” 

Charles Conkling turned quickly in his big armchair, dis¬ 
missed the disreputably dressed farmer boy from his mind, 
and gave his attention to the many pressing matters that are 
always awaiting the attention of an editor of a great metro¬ 
politan newspaper. 


X 


A Game op Football 

Grace Conkling, daughter of Charles Conkling, editor of 
“The Knickerbocker,” one of the more influential papers of 
New York City, attended school at Belmont. She was a charm¬ 
ing young lady of perhaps nineteen, and, like Maude Muller, 
was the picture of health and contentment. Her eyes were 
brown, her complexion fair, her cheeks full, her stature 
medium, her form plump, but not stout. She was genial and 
animated in conversation, vivacious and caustic in repartee, 
queenly and commanding in carriage. 

It was Saturday and the annual class scrap was a matter 
of history. The bruised noses had, in a large measure, forgot¬ 
ten their soreness; the smashed hats and shredded clothing 
had been replaced with new outfits; the wounded feelings and 
bleeding sensibilities had been poulticed with conciliatory ex¬ 
planations and profuse regrets. 

A football game now was on. It was between Belmont and 
Blair. The University of Belmont was early astir on this 
serene Saturday morning with enthusiasm and eagerness. Like 
all college towns, Belmont was a cemetery when the students 
were gone, but when the smiling young hopefuls returned, it 
at once blossomed into buoyant and vigorous life. The ap¬ 
proaching game even stirred the townspeople with fervent 
expectancy, while the effervescing student body resembled an 
over-bubbling spring. The football game was the universal 
topic of conversation. “Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! 
Belmont!” resounded from everywhere. It was shouted from 
the house-tops, from the hill-tops, from the tree-tops. Robert 
Tadmore was Belmont’s athletic wonder. He was the star half¬ 
back of the ’varsity eleven. He was the hope and the inspi¬ 
ration of the college, athletically. Whensoever he appeared 
upon the gridiron he was greeted with cheers of prolonged en¬ 
thusiasm, and ovation after ovation was meted out to him. 

Everybody worships a hero or heroine. Robert Tadmore 
possessed a fine physique, built for endurance and agility. 

79 


80 


THE LONGDENS 


Whenever he started with the ball, he went—he was the para¬ 
doxical irresistible force. The opposition could not hold him, 
neither could it stop him. Naturally, when Belmont was 
winning, the rooters cheered lustily, but it was when Tadmore 
started with the ball that bedlam broke loose. Once he kicked 
the ball from about the fifty-yard line, and the spectators 
simply went feverishly mad as they saw the ball soar many 
feet in the air like some strange, uncanny bird of prey and 
drop midway between the two goal posts. A mighty shout not 
unlike a thousand thunders went up. Pandemonium reigned. 
The student body became a howling, surging mob. They 
rushed upon the gridiron en masse and earned young Tadmore 
back to Belmont’s side upon their shoulders. The ladies in 
the amphitheater quickly and tactfully changed the college yell 
to “Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah, Tadmore!” Even the 
grouchy, crusty, anaemic professors forgot their customary 
dignity and yelled like school boys playing tallyho. 

Grace Conkling too was there. She roomed at the ladies’ 
dormitory, and ate in the commodious dining-room immedi¬ 
ately below. She and Robert Tadmore dined and chatted at 
the same table. They were very good friends. At their table 
only the socially select were admitted, and woe be unto that 
luckless outsider who unwittingly presumed so much as to seat 
himself at this table uninvited—this table of beauty and 
social exclusiveness. 

Naturally, Grace’s enthusiasm and admiration now were 
boundless. She could scarcely contain herself. The tides 
of hilariousness had reached the flood stage. She shouted 
and holloaed and marched to and fro waving her ’kerchief 
frantically if not hysterically. She was accompanied and 
aided and abetted in her jollification by a full half dozen 
congenial feminine friends, each of whom was singing with 
vigor. 

Blair had been long since fully advised that Robert Tad¬ 
more was the star player of the Belmont team, and Blair 
had already decided, at the first opportunity, to hurt him, 
to cripple him, to put him out of the game. So the Blair 
players were now bumping Mr. Tadmore with all their 
might. They sat upon him, they fell upon him, they piled 
upon him, they jumped upon him; but he seemed to 
possess a charmed life. Three big Blair athletes guarded 
him constantly, while the rest of the visiting team an- 


A GAME OF FOOTBALL 


81 


noyed him, pounced upon him and interfered with his plays; 
but Robert still played on. Such is dirty athletics; such are 
the enemies of clean sports; such is depraved human nature 
when it tries to kill off a good player for the mere sake of 
winning a game. 

Finally the battle was over. Fortunately Robert Tad- 
more escaped injury. Belmont beat its competitor by the 
clean-cut score of thirty-two to nothing. The entire city 
of Belmont celebrated. Even the college professors were 
jubilant. Their sickly grins reminded one of a bevy of 
school girls who have reached that giggling, simpering stage 
in life when love is paramount. 

Mr. Tadmore as a student was very poor; he was unsatis¬ 
factory, but there was no danger of his flunking—he was 
the lion of the hour. A student’s athletic record can cover 
a multitude of flunks. Undeniably Robert would now 
graduate with honors. There was no alternative. The exig¬ 
encies of the situation demanded it; college public opinion 
demanded it; and, after all, public opinion eventually sits 
upon the throne and rules the world. 

He was carried from the gridiron upon the shoulders of 
four stalwart athletic enthusiasts. The student body and the 
faculty fell in line behind their hero, and the entire aggrega¬ 
tion started townward yelling like a bunch of Apache braves 
starting upon the warpath. '“Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah, 
Belmont,” split the air with its piercing shrillness and bound¬ 
less vigor. The accent and emphasis were placed upon the 
third and sixth “rahs” and “Belmont.” The other words were 
spoken quick and short. 

Mr. Tadmore’s bump of egotism had now swollen to the 
size of an unhulled walnut. He was forced to the conclusion 
that he really was a superior creature. The ladies lavished 
their most genial smiles upon him, and his masculine friends 
made him glad with their eulogies and words of good cheer. 

The procession marched about the city for more than an 
hour, stopping at the ladies’ dormitory, the president’s home, 
the various fraternity houses and all other places of college 
importance. Every stop demanded time: it required a speech, 
a special ovation, the college yell, and the breeziest fraternity 
songs. During all this Robert was naturally sprayed with the 
atomizer of praise, and perfumed with the helitrope of 
love, and he enjoyed it immensely. Some people think this 


82 


THE LONGDENS 


is great stuff. They like it supremely and it seems to nourish 
them, but after all it is moonshine, foam, blue sky, slippery- 
elm bark. 

When Grace Conkling reached her room that evening she 
was very tired, but her enthusiasm was bubbling. She eulo¬ 
gized as follows, addressing her room mate, Helen Hunt: 

“Robert Tadmore is certainly a wonder. He is the perfect 
man. He is the marvel of the ages.” 

“Yes, Grace, he’s a typical American boy. He’s always on 
his toes ready to go forward. He’s aggressive, he’s fearless, 
he’s a physical marvel,” answered Helen who was the daughter 
of a jeweler and lived directly across the street from Grace 
in New York. 

“He’ll make a great man—mind what I tell you: he’ll make a 
great man.” 

“Yes, he’s undeniably a live wire,” said Helen. 

“That’s the sort of a fellow I’m angling for,” declared 
Grace. 

“I certainly believe in Robert Tadmore.” 

“And he’s sociable, too; but he’s not a snob—I hate a 
snob.” 

“So do I,” said Helen. 

“Besides he’s a fine looker and a swell dresser,” added Grace. 

“Do you suppose he wears a corset?” whispered Helen. 

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Grace. 

“He’s almost feminine in his dress, and—” 

“No, he isn’t either, Helen. Why, what makes you say such 
awful things about Robert? He’s a four-square man, a man 
with initiative and aggressiveness; but he also has taste and 
style and the most charming ways in the world.” 

“He’s the most delightful fellow in college. He’s strictly 
up to date on what to do and when to do it,” answered Helen, 
hedging. 

“I agree, Helen.” 

“I imagine that his wardrobe is easily worth five thousand.” 

“Oh, Helen! isn’t he a swell fellow? I just love him with 
all my heart,” confessed Grace with a giggle and a twitter. 

“So serious as all that?” mischievously and charmingly 
queried Helen who was tall and lithe and willowy and had 
keen, piercing, brown eyes. 

“I wish he were going to be at the club tonight—we’d cer¬ 
tainly celebrate, wouldn’t we?” asked Grace. 


A GAME OF FOOTBALL 


83 


“Indeed we would.” 

“We’d make him the guest of honor, wouldn’t we?” 

“He’s always that.” 

Bight you are, Helen; but our club is a tame affair when 
our ‘Bobin’s not here.’” 

^ But he’ll be back—the football season will soon be over.” 

“If he’d only come tonight, I’d be so happy,” sighed Grace. 

“He’ll come very soon. They’re feeding our Bobert on rare 
beef and limberger down there where football players are cod¬ 
dled and tuned and shaped and tutored.” 

They say that cigarettes and chocolates and pie and cake 
are tabooed.” 

“Tabooed? No cigarettes? How awful! Tame old world! 
Poor Bobert!” explained Helen. 

“It’s certainly a strenuous life that these football players 
lead that they may earn a little ’varsity glory; especially 
when a slip or a fumble loses the poor fellow everything ex¬ 
cepting the jibes and taunts of a thankless student body.” 

“Thank goodness! it’s only three more weeks until the foot¬ 
ball season closes, then our Bobert will come back to us all 
covered with glory,” said Helen. 

“How delightful his presence will be, with all its breezy 
freshness, all his good-natured vivacity, and all his stylish 
up-to-dateness,” Grace said pensively. 

“Well, it’s supper time—I’ll bet you it will be hash, or 
creamed beef or rice.” 

“Then you can guess it in three guesses?” asked Grace. 

“Always, and sometimes in one,” said Helen. 

“Well, let’s go down and take our ‘medi.’” 

“Oh, let’s stay in our room, and resurrect the chafing dish 
and have some tomato bouillon all by our Tones.’” 

“Agreed! Capital!” said Grace. 

So these two daughters of wealth and beauty remained in 
their room, and, like the bachelor smoking a round of cigars 
in his den, dreamed and chatted the evening away. 


XI 


The Acid Test 

It was now three days since Dudley Longden commenced 
working at his job as janitor at “The Knickerbocker” offices. 
He was undergoing the acid test of ridicule. He was still 
wearing the red bandana about his neck, and, naturally, it 
provoked a smile and a chuckle wherever he went. Too, he 
was still wearing the patched blue overalls and the faded 
waistcoat that he had on when he tearfully bid his good 
mother goodby. He had, however, on the second evening 
washed them and hung them by the furnace to dry while 
he slept, but he had used too much lye and had faded them 
to that horrible yellow color that completely paralyzes the 
aesthetic nature. In fact he was pronounced a rare bird with 
rare plumage—probably a kingfisher. 

It was now morning of the third day. Dudley had just 
emerged from the basement to ascertain the warmth of the 
room and the radiators, when a pert young lad who was one 
of the under-secretaries shouted in a loud voice to Anna Bland, 
an understudy in the mailing department and a daughter of a 
walking delegate of the Printer’s Union, saying: 

“Oh, Anna! 

“ ‘If a body meet a body cornin’ through the rye, 

If a body kiss a body, would a body cry?’” 

Naturally every employee in “The Knickerbocker” offices 
heard the taunt and chuckled infectiously. The pompous 
young fellow followed up this first success with: 

“Come one, come all, come this way. The latest freak from 
the wilds of Ohio has just come to town.” 

Anna laughed boisterously and replied arrogantly: 

“No, no, Bill, you have it wrong: it’s our friend Si Plunkard 
that has just come to town.” 

Dudley looked about innocently, colored perceptibly, felt 
the poisoned sting of this barbed sarcasm, but said nothing. 

84 


THE ACID TEST 


85 


Mr. Conkling was listening, however, and these biting thrusts, 
these envenomed arrows grated painfully upon his sense of 
justice and fair play. Presumably, he was busily engaged; 
in truth he was listening attentively and he had heard. He 
quickly took up his pen and wrote: 

“No gentleman laughs at the dress, the mistakes, or the mis¬ 
fortunes of another. Instead, he should be profoundly grate¬ 
ful to his Creator that he has been dealt with so considerately 
and so charitably.” 

He forthwith ordered this gentle, but pointed rebuke printed 
upon small pieces of cardboard, one of which was placed upon 
the desk of each employee. The refined and courteous took 
the rebuke seriously, but the supercilious and discourteous 
smiled rudely and inconsiderately. 

Momentarily, two newsboys came bolting through one of 
the rear doors of the printshop in quest of a drink. They 
came suddenly upon Dudley for the first time. They stopped 
and deliberately looked him over, gazing at him rudely and 
with eyes full of wonder. Astonishment beamed from their 
mischievous eyes. The freckle-faced, red-headed lad shouted 
to the job printer: 

“Where did you git it, Tim?” 

Tim smiled knowingly. The red-headed boy continued: 

“Black him up, Tim, and that lad ’ll make a crackin’ good 
‘end man’.” 

Tim smiled broadly, but said nothing. 

“Now, Red, look him over keerfully—that’s certainly a swell 
outfit he’s got on; I’ll bet that’s the latest,” asserted Brownie 
confidentially and mock-seriously. 

“Brownie” was a brown-headed, brown-eyed lad who was 
Red’s inseparable pal in times of peace and times of war. 

“Let’s git him sheared, Brownie. I’ll contribute liberally— 
here’s my ‘nick’ right now.” 

“Just as well have him shod, too. Them there shoes hain’t fit 
fer no thoroughbred.” 

“Looky! Jist looky at that there wire pin he wears—G. F., 
Great Flimmer. I’ll bet that’s right, too.” 

“But gee! how kin he afford it? That there pin cost 
somethin’.” 

Ingratitude and ridicule are the two heaviest crosses that 
mortal man is called upon to bear. Dudley had thus far reso¬ 
lutely borne them both without a murmur. He bravely con- 


86 


THE LONGDENS 


tinned his work as if nothing were happening. Constitution¬ 
ally, he was super-sensitive, so naturally his heart was bleed¬ 
ing. How he longed for his sweet-spirited mother who was 
dearer to him than silver or gold. How he longed for his 
vivacious sweetheart who to him was sweeter than the honey 
or the honeycomb. 

The two lads had now got a drink, but they were not satis¬ 
fied. They were itching for more fun at Dudley’s expense. 
The red-headed youngster boldly addressed him: 

“Well, pard, take keer of yerself and don’t work too hard.” 

“And take good keer of that there red bandaner—it would 
be a shame to git that spiled,” shouted Brownie in a loud 
voice. 

“Don’t forgit to go to Sunday School next Sunday—mama 
’ll spank.” 

“I wonder if he’d let me chaw his gum a leetle while.” 

“Nothin’ doin’—it’s too good.” 

“I bet that feller has been to the county fair where you git 
all the pink lemonade you kin drink fer a nickel.” 

“And the gals! Oh, them gals! My, my! Rosebuds! 
Mornin’ glories! Dew drops! Chocolate drops! Yum, Yum!” 

“Maybe he’d take us kids along sometime.” 

“To help ketch the greased pig?” 

“Yes, and see the big pumpkins.” 

“All right, pard, thanks awfully fer the invitation. Yes, 
we’ll go, but don’t forgit to git us two sugar-coated gals, one 
brown-headed and one red-headed. Won’t that be delightful?” 

“But, say! boy! You must git dolled up with a new ban¬ 
daner, and you must put two coats of stove blacking on them 
there shoes.” 

“All right; then we’re all fixed. That’s just fine. Goodby.” 

Thus these two thorns in the flesh quitted the printshop, 
leaving their sarcasm to rankle in Dudley’s sensitive breast 
after they were far away. It was painful but some things have 
to be endured. 

Although Dudley’s feelings were very susceptible, although 
he was undeniably over self-conscious, still his judgment had 
been slow in maturing. Men flower later in life than women, 
and some men mature more slowly and much later than others. 

One of the linotype operators felt sorry for Dudley and 
followed him to the furnace room, where he addressed him as 
follows: 


THE ACID TEST 


87 


“Son, let me tell you something.” 

“Certainly,” replied Dudley courteously. 

“Your clothes make everybody laugh. People are ridicul¬ 
ing you.” 

“I know it, but I have no money.” 

“I trust you didn’t come to New York City without any 
money.” 

“My father is miserly. He offered me no money when I 
started, and I was too proud to ask him.” 

“I don’t blame you for quitting him.” 

“But I have a good mother; yes, I have the best mother 
that ever lived,” explained Dudley earnestly as tears welled 
up into his blue eyes. 

“I have some clothes at home; they’re nothing to brag on, but 
they’re better than those you have on.” 

“I will pay you—I’m no bum. I’ve been a hard-working 
boy, but God knows that I’ve tried to do what was right.” 

“There’ll be no charges, Dudley. They’re castaway clothes 
and a little ragged, but they’re better than those you have on.” 

“I’ll certainly appreciate your kindness.” 

“I think my clothes will just about fit you—we’re about the 
same size, I guess.” 

“I’m going to buy me some togs as soon as I earn a little 
money.” 

“Dudley, you must remember that in a city like this, you’re 
judged entirely by your appearance, by the clothes you wear.” 

“I presume strangers have no other way of judging a per¬ 
son, but it seems to me that that sort of yardstick isn’t 
exactly accurate.” 

“Probably not, nevertheless the ordinary person judges 
your prosperity, your financial standing, your intelligence, 
your ability to make good, and even your morals by your per¬ 
sonal appearance, and you can’t change him.” 

“Now, out my way, out in Ohio, we don’t give dress the 
consideration that you do here in New York. I notice that 
all New Yorkers wear the same sort of hat, the same tan 
oxfords, the same style of collar, the same knit tie—you people 
remind me of a herd of Holsteins. You’re all the same; you 
have no individuality. Now in my state we’re more independ¬ 
ent; we’re not the ardent votaries of style and fashion that 
you are here, and I trust we shall always maintain our inde¬ 
pendence.” 


88 THE LONGDENS 

“Anyway, Dudley, you can’t change New York—its habits 
are fixed.” 

“I know it and I’m not going to try to change it.” 

“Tonight, Dudley, I’ll have mother patch all the bad places 
in one of my suits, and then, I believe, you’ll not be ashamed 
of them.” 

“If you want any errands run, or any work done any time 
after hours, remember that the job’s mine. I want to pay for 
everything I get. I’m no sponge.” 

“You seem to be an appreciative sort of a chap, Dtidley, and 
that makes me like you.” 

“Say, tell me one thing: are all ‘The Knickerbocker’ em¬ 
ployees wealthy?” 

“By no means.” 

“They all wear fine clothes, and I naturally presumed they 
were all very rich.” 

“Not at all, Dudley. Don’t you know that the great ma¬ 
jority of people would rather be dead than out of style?” 

“But how can they afford it?” 

“The American people can afford anything.” 

“But how?” 

“Don’t you know, Dudley, that they will mortgage their 
homes, that they’ll mortgage their furniture, that they’ll 
mortgage their lives that they may buy swell clothes, give 
big dinner parties, and drive a flashy automobile?” 

“Surely not.” 

“Why seventy-five per cent of the salaried class of New York 
City is in the clutches of the chattel loan sharks.” 

“I would not have imagined that such a thing could be 
true.” 

“I’ll say that ninety per cent of the world is struggling— 
struggling with its head just above the financial waters in its 
mad effort to keep up appearances, in its mad effort to 
entertain prodigally and live regally.” 

“I’d rather wear these old clothes and save some money than 
be in that class.” 

“I believe you’re wrong. People would snub you and 
ridicule you and refuse to associate with you, if you attempted 
anything of that kind.” 

“That’s the way they do in New York?” 

“Yes, and the villages, too; and I tell you another thing, 


THE ACID TEST 


Dudley: you're employer 'll dismiss you after a while, if you 
don't spruce up and dress respectably.” 

“Dear old Ohio! How I cherish thy fair name! Any man is 
a fool to mortgage his home to buy an automobile.'' 

“They say one is born every moment." 

“But I guess that's none of my business. All I've got to do 
is to make good. As soon as I get some decent clothes I'm 
going to attend night school, and if you'll show me how to 
operate your linotype machine, I’ll do some of your work 
for you after supper.” 

“But the union!” 

“The union will never know, and I'll never tell.” 

Dudley's friend studied for a moment and then he answered: 

“I'll just do that, Dudley. I can show you of evenings when 
no one is around.” 

“Certainly you can.” 

“By the way, you're wearing a peculiar pin.” 

“Oh, it's nothing—nothing but a home-made affair. The 
members of a society of young people at home wear it be¬ 
cause they think it's smart.” 

“What does it stand for?” 

“Patriotism, home and native land.” 

“That's saying a great deal, but just what do you mean?” 

“I'll explain more at length some day; it’s just a little 
foolishness of a bunch of kids.” 

Here the conversation closed. It was quitting time. Every¬ 
thing about the printshop was controlled by unions, and quite 
naturally when the clock struck five, everything stopped, and 
it now was five. Typewriters died in the middle of a sentence, 
linotype machines pitched their tents in the middle of a word, 
half-finished editorials peacefully rested until the morrow, 
display “ads” were left partly blocked; in fact, every kind 
of work had now given away to chatter and the noise of the 
scores of departing employees. 

Mr. Robins hastily started upstairs, but he suddenly turned 
and said: 

“Dudley, I’ll see you in the morning—it's quitting time now. 
It is five o'clock, and everything stops, you know, at five.” 

“Can I do anything for you tonight?” 

“You can oil and clean my machine thoroughly.” 

“I certainly will.” 

Thus the conversation ended. Soon everyone had left the 


90 


THE LONGDENS 


building except Dudley who was eating bis unpretentious lunch 
of cheese and crackers, and Mr. Conkling who was writing his 
daughter, Grace, as follows: 

“Dear daughter: 

I was delighted when I read that Belmont had 
beaten Blair at football. Hurrah for Belmont! 
Three cheers! That fellow, Tadmore, must be a two- 
thousand volt, high-tension motor. Yes, he must be a 
magnificent specimen of physical manhood. 

I employed a new janitor some four days since. He 
is from the country. His appearance is against him, 
but I employed him through sympathy. He really has 
nothing to recommend him save his poverty and an 
honest eye. All the other employees are making sport 
of him, but the chap has never had a chanee. His 
clothes are a joke; his straw hat resembles the one 
that ‘Puppy’ played with in the kennel last summer; 
his hair—I mean the boy’s hair—is long and unkempt; 
he wears a large, red bandana around his neck day 
and night—oh, I admit that he’s a picture for “Puck,” 
but he only asks four dollars a week, and he assures 
me that he will save two of that. They say that a 
chrysanthemum is no more than a daisy plus a certain 
amount of culture, but it remains to be seen whether 
this chap is a daisy or a stalk of dogfennel. 

Goodby, with love, from 

Father.” 

“P. S. I just employed Susan Bradstreet, our new 
janitor’s sweetheart. She too is fresh from the sterile 
hills of Ohio. I may need your sympathy.” 


Susan had indeed come to the city and Dudley spent many 
hours with his country love. In fact, they breakfasted to¬ 
gether and lunched together and left the building together 
every night. 

More than a year had elapsed since Robert Tadmore left 
his fair, young bride wistfully standing near the immense 
boulder on the mountain side. She had eagerly watched his 


THE ACID TEST 


91 


disappearing form until lie was gone. It was then that she 
completely “broke down” and sobbed convulsively. 

Each morning at dawn and each evening at dusk, since that 
memorable day, in wintry storms and the rejuvenating sun¬ 
shine of summer, Julia Nansen had gone down to the boulder 
near the brink of the mountain stream to await and to wel¬ 
come her indifferent husband. Here, on the boulder, she often 
sat for hours with her babe in her arms, either weirdly hum¬ 
ming some disconnected love tune, or holding silent communion 
with the past. To her this boulder was a sacred spot. It was 
hallowed ground all around about. Here she daily conse¬ 
crated her life anew to one whom she loved more than life 
itself. It was here that she last saw him without whom life 
was a bleak, lonesome, desolate trail. 

She was now sitting upon the boulder. She stopped and 
looked tenderly at her babe, looked tenderly into the innocent 
eyes of her babe, and said: 

“Baby dear, say ‘papa.’ You kin say ‘papa/ can’t you? 
But where is papa? Your dear papa? If papa only knew 
how lonesome we were, he’d hurry back, hurry right back, 
wouldn’t he, dear? 

“The hicker’ nuts are failin’—I found one yisterday. Papa 
said he’d come back before the hicker’ nuts fell, but they fell 
last year and papa did not come. They are now falling again 
and dear papa has not come. But papa will come, baby dear, 
because he said he would, and papa is good and noble and 
true. How nice it is to have such a good, such a noble, such a 
true papa!” 


XII 


Disappointments 

Grace and Robert were quietly resting. Dinner was over 
and they were enjoying not a siesta, but a few moments of 
recuperation. They were seated in commodious, tapestried 
rockers in the parlor of the ladies’ dormitory conversing, but 
somehow the conversation was dragging. Grace suddenly be¬ 
came morose and uncommunicative. Robert tried repeatedly, 
but unsuccessfully, to interest her, and finally he queried 
petulantly: 

“What in the world is the matter with you, Grace?” 

“Nothing,” replied Grace laconically. 

“You may be telling the truth, but I doubt—” 

“Well, if you must know, I’m worried, simply worried to 
death about papa.” 

“How’s that?” 

“Aren’t you a little inquisitive?” 

“I don’t wish to be. I have no desire to interpose in family 
affairs, but I thought I might be able to assist you, Grace.” 

“As I said, it’s papa Conkling—he’s about to drive me to 
drink.” 

“Don’t permit him to do it, refreshments are expensive 
now—yes, I say, they’re scarce, and a fellow takes chances.” 

“Anyway, papa has not only allowed that green janitor of 
ours to bring his girl to New York, but he has employed her.” 

“Where does your ‘green’ janitor hail from?” 

“Some place in Ohio.” 

“Then you be mighty ‘keerful’ what you say, for your 
humble servant is a buckeye,” admonished Robert mock- 
seriously. 

Grace smiled as she answered: 

“If our janitor is a fair sample of the buckeyes that grow 
in your state, I pity Ohio.” 

“You’ve personally seen and talked with your janitor?” 

“Yes, I met the distinguished gentleman just before I re¬ 
turned from the Christmas holidays.” 

92 


DISAPPOINTMENTS 


93 


“And he was impressive? Profound?” 

“Very. Really he's the greenest pumpkin that I ever talked 
to.” 

“Then you're in the habit of talking to the pumpkins?” 

“The one I'm talking to now and the janitor are the only 
ones.” 

“Then Ohio pumpkins are especially favored, it seems.” 

“Oh, not any more than the Ohio gourd and toad-stool 
families.” 

“Now, you be keerful; remember that his-uns' from Ohio 
hain't a-goin' to stand for everything at the hands of ‘you-uns' 
from New York.” 

“Our janitor's name is Longden—I've been trying to think 
of it all evening. Yes, Dudley Longden is his name.” 

“Dudley Longden?” 

“That's his name all right.” 

“Dudley Longden! Dudley Longden! Did you say Dudley 
Longden?” queried Robert thoughtfully. 

“Is he a relative?” 

“No.” 

“A special friend?” 

“No.” 

“Anyway, he has an illustrious name. It is as pretentious 
as that of a college professor.” 

“Dudley Longden! I knew a fellow once by that name.” 

“I wish I knew how to get him out of papa's shop.” 

“Why, Grace?” 

“Oh, he's a fraud, a designing, calculating fraud. Such fos¬ 
sils continually ‘work' papa. He's perpetually giving some¬ 
body a chance, or trying somebody out.” 

“Not a bad idea, Grace.” 

“I fear papa i 3 a theorist, a visionary, a dreamer. He now 
has an ‘ideer' that it’s a business blunder to try to sell ad¬ 
vertising space immediately after breakfast. He argues that 
business men are always, at that time of day, subnormal with 
a decided tendency toward grouchine3s. He argues, too, that 
the same is true on cloudy days. Isn't that a strange phi¬ 
losophy for a hard-headed business man of papa’s financial 
standing to advance?” 

“Say, Grace, that philosophy interests me keenly. There's 
something in it. Most men are grouchy until ten o'clock, but 


94 


THE LONGDENS 


how does your father handle the situation? Does he wait for 
sunshine? Does he wait for the clock to strike ten?” 

“Does he wait? He certainly waits—waits for a sky of blue 
and a flood of sunshine, if he has to wait a month.” 

“And he follows this course in all business transactions ?” 

“Oh, certainly not; but he follows it when he’s trying to put 
a big advertising deal ‘across’ that means thousands of dollars 
to him.” 

“And never until ten o’clock even though the sun is shin¬ 
ing ?” 

“Never until ten o’clock even though the sun is shining.” 

“I believe he’s right, Grace. Anyway his success speaks 
loudly in his favor.” 

“He may be right in this, but he’s wrong in employing that 
fellow from Ohio, and he’s doubly wrong in employing that 
Ohio fellow’s sweetheart. Why, papa’s density bewilders me.” 

“I wonder what the girl’s name is.” 

“I don’t remember, but papa gave me her name in the letter 
I received today.” 

“I believe I know the girl, but I should so much like to 
know for sure.” 

“Excuse me until I go to my room and I’ll And out for 
you.” 

“Certainly.” 

Grace soon returned, and after she was seated, she pulled 
her rocker a little nearer, saying: 

“Susan Bradstreet.” 

“That’s the girl. My surmises were correct.” 

“You know her, Bob?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you know Dudley Longden?” 

“Yes.” 

“This is getting interesting—what do you know about 
them ?” 

“Both of these people came from Waterloo, Ohio,” said 
Robert. 

“Your home town?” 

“Yes.” 

“If they’re not relatives, tell me what you know about 
them ?” 

“They’re not relatives. They are small potatoes of a not 
very desirable variety.” 


DISAPPOINTMENTS 


95 


“I thought so.” 

“Yes, your father is making a stupendous blunder. He’ll 
soon be over-run with this gang, for more will quickly follow.” 

“I fear so.” 

“They are considered driftwood, garbage, shavings in 
Waterloo.” 

A friend, real or imaginary, would not have said what 
Robert said; so we naturally conclude that he was no friend 
of Dudley Longden’s. In truth, he was jealous, jealous be¬ 
cause Dudley had secured a position with Grace’s father. But 
that was not all; he was opposed to him because he was fear¬ 
ful that Dudley might hear some floating rumors from the 
Rocky Mountains, fearful that Dudley might expose him and 
his ignoble past. Naturally, any news of his desertion would 
first find its way back to Waterloo; thence by mail to Dudley 
Longden. So Robert quickly decided that it was highly im¬ 
portant that he get Dudley out of Mr. Conkling’s plant, inas¬ 
much as exposure meant nothing less than the loss of Grace 
Conkling as a sweetheart. 

It is incomprehensible why fate so often smooths and paves 
the way for the derelict. It seems that it is too often true, 
and it was true in the present case, for Grace replied unwit¬ 
tingly: 

“I wish we could get rid of them.” 

“I believe that if we could get rid of the girl, we could easily 
get rid of Dudley.” 

“ ‘Egsplain’ yourself.” 

“My idea is simply this: I know Dlidley Longden’s cling¬ 
ing disposition too well. I’m sure that he would follow the girl 
to the land of Timbuctoo.” 

“Is that the way the men do?” 

“Yes, some men. Undeniably, Dudley has sent for the girl 
because he was suffering from homesickness and lonesome¬ 
ness. I know his disposition. What he wanted and yearned 
for was company, companionship. So there’s no doubt but 
that he’ll follow the girl to purgatory, if necessary.” 

“That’s where some of the girls take the boys,” spoke Grace 
seriously. 

Robert seemed to pay no attention to Grace’s moralizing, 
and answered: 

“I know Susan fairly well, and, if I can secure her a 


96 


THE LONGDENS 


position elsewhere, I’m sure that I can induce her to accept 
it.” 

“I sincerely hope so—go at once and see what can be done.” 

Robert accordingly bid Grace “adieu” and went to his room 
where he forthwith wrote Susan’s parents asking for the 
daughter’s New York address. As soon as he received a reply, 
he wrote Susan begging an engagement with her for Thursday 
evening of the following week, but he cautioned her to say 
nothing to Dudley about his coming, or his having written 
her. 

Robert did not wish to go near “The Knickerbocker” office 
lest Mr. Conkling might learn of his mission and might not 
only resent his interference and oppose his mission, but might 
break up the pleasant and very promising relations which 
existed between him and Grace. However, he was thoroughly 
convinced that Dudley and Susan must be gotten out of “The 
Knickerbocker” offices forthwith, no difference what the cost— 
the hazard of being found out was too great; his western 
escapades were too flagrant. But, everything considered, 
Robert was “skating on very thin ice.” 

Of course Susan was delighted upon receiving Robert’s invi¬ 
tation, inasmuch as he was generally considered by womankind 
a prize de luxe. She accepted eagerly and at once began mak¬ 
ing extensive dress preparations for the occasion. A hustling, 
wide-awake, young lady adjusts herself to unaccustomed en¬ 
vironments and unexpected dress innovations more readily 
than men. Susan had been in New York less than a month, but 
she had already made rapid progress in adjusting her wardrobe 
to up-to-date styles. However, she had not only expended 
every cent at her command, but she had in her mad effort to 
be “in style” borrowed fifty dollars of Dudley. 

Heretofore, Susan and Dudley had habitually gone some¬ 
where each and every evening. Finally the Thursday evening 
came when Robert was to accompany her to the theater. After 
Susan and Dudley had dined together that evening, Dudley ac¬ 
companied her to her rooming place, saying, as he lifted his 
hat: 

“Goodby, Susan; I’ll see you in an hour.” 

“Oh, please don’t come this evening, Dudley—I’m completely 
fagged out.” 

“You’re not sick?” 

“No, just tired.” 


DISAPPOINTMENTS 


97 


s Anyway, I’ll come around after a while to see how you are 
feeling.” 

“Don’t do it, Dudley—I don’t want to be bothered this 
evening—I have some letters to write.” 

Dudley said nothing more. He wondered, but he was not 
suspicious. He went to his room for the night as happily as 
any sunflower ever turned its smiling face toward the setting 
sun. The next morning Susan was not as cordial as usual, 
but Dudley was still confidingly unsuspicious. That evening 
when he suggested going to the theater, Susan answered 
pointedly: 

“No, I’m not going.” , 

“What’s the trouble, Susan? Have I done anything wrong? 
Anything to offend you?” 

“Not that I know of.” 

“Then why this coldness?” 

“Next Monday I’m going to another job.” 

“To another job?” 

“What’s the trouble with you and Mr. Conkling?” 

“Nothing, but when I can get more money, why should I 
stay with Mr. C.?” 

“Very much more money?” asked Dudley. 

“Double what I am now getting,” said Susan. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Perfectly sure.” 

“There’s something wrong, Susan.” 

“Maybe it’s you.” 

Susan’s independence not only surprised Dudley and took 
him unawares, but her arrogance overwhelmed him. He 
knew too well that the salary that Susan mentioned was ex¬ 
orbitant and that someone had intervened. He was right. 
In truth, Robert was paying half of Susan’s salary; he had 
so arranged it with the management that he might hasten his 
plan to a successful conclusion. Dudley looked straight into 
Susan’s eyes and questioned pointedly: 

“Susan, who’s getting you this job?” 

“Don’t you think a woman has enough gumption to apply 
for and secure a position?” 

“Yes, but something has happened. Someone else is doing 
this, someone else is interested in you.” 

“Anything wrong about that?” 

“Nothing in the least.” 


98 


THE LONGDENS 


As heretofore stated, Robert’s plan was broader than Susan 
imagined: his scheme presumed that Dudley would follow 
Susan to her new job which would naturally prevent any 
rumors of his western escapade from reaching Grace’s or Mr. 
Conkling’s ears; but it seemed that his plan was going to fail. 
Susan was madly in love with Robert and she did not want 
Dudley around to annoy her and interfere with Robert’s court¬ 
ship. Robert could not explain his plan directly to Dudley 
lest he might tell Mr. Conkling who might bitterly resent 
any outside interference with any of the employees of “The 
Knickerbocker.” So the entire scheme had to be worked 
through Susan whom Robert had sworn to eternal secrecy. 

Susan, in her last reply, had virtually acknowledged that 
she had another masculine admirer, and her tone indicated 
that she was openly hostile to Dudley’s advances and no 
longer considered him a near-friend. She now made a further 
confession: 

“Dudley, you do not wear fine enough clothes.” 

“So it’s a matter of dress,»is it?” 

“Yes, in part. Your clothes make me ashamed of you.” 

“What if I should buy a new suit?” 

“Don’t do it on my account, Dudley—I might be wrong.” 

“Your friend is a swell dresser?” 

“He certainly is.” 

“As swell as Robert Tadmore?” 

“Yes.” 

“Have I ever met him?” 

“I think so.” 

“It’s Robert Tadmore. I know it is Robert Tadmore— 
isn’t it?” 

“Who told you? You’re always a-nosin’ into my affairs.” 

“I was merely asking you, Susan.” 

“No, you weren’t either,” answered Susan, who now was 
angry and in tears. 

This precipitate reply was the cause of relations being ab¬ 
ruptly broken off between Susan and Dudley. Each went his 
separate way. Dudley was deeply grieved; it seemed to him 
that he had been buffeted by adverse winds all his days, but 
he bravely kept to his course hiding his amorous troubles in 
the secret recesses of his heart. 

On Monday morning Robert escorted Susan to her new posi¬ 
tion and bid her a “fond goodby.” He then took the first train 


DISAPPOINTMENTS 


99 


for Belmont, feeling that his work had been eminently success¬ 
ful, believing that as soon as he was gone Dudley would follow 
Susan away from “The Knickerbocker” offices to her new 
place of employment. 

Robert recited all of the happenings to Grace as soon as he 
reached Belmont. Grace was jubilant. She not only approved 
all that he had done, but she spoke warm words of commenda¬ 
tion, and she muttered to herself: 

“There is a lad that certainly does things. He’s slated to 
be a great man. I trust I shall be able to claim him as my 
husband.” 

So Robert was not only pleased with himself, but Grace 
was so pleased with him that she was madly in love with him. 

On the following Monday Robert slipped down to New York 
to see how Susan was progressing, to see how she liked her new 
job, to see if Dudley had followed her as he thought Dudley 
would. Susan was inured to toil. All her days she had 
been taught to work. So the tasks never became too arduous, 
or the hours too long or the job too irksome when the pay was 
inviting. 

Robert found her working diligently. After the two had 
exchanged greetings, Robert exclaimed involuntarily: 

“Where’s Dudley?” 

“I don’t know nothing about Dudley.” 

“I thought you were his sweetheart,” smiled Robert. 

“I didn’t suppose you’d want him to come to see me—most 
men object.” 

“It will be all right with me, Susan.” 

“Then you’re going to quit me?” 

“Oh, no; but Susan I’ve got a dozen girls.” 

“I don’t like that.” 

“Don’t you know that that is the style in New York?” 

“Then I don’t like New York styles.” 

“I supposed you’d bring Dudley with you.” 

“I didn’t ask him.” 

“My idea was to help Dudley, too, but I didn’t want him to 
know that I was helping him.” 

“Dudley and I are not friends any more.” 

“Why?” 

“Because.” i 

“But I’ll have to go back to Belmont to my studies, and I 


100 


THE LONGDENS 


can seldom come over here. You ought to be friendly to 
Dudley—he’ll take you some place every night.” 

“You could write me, Robert, and you could come down to 
see me every Sunday.” 

“But what’s the matter with Dudley ? He’s a fine fellow.” 

“I’ll wait for you, Robert. I’ll get lonesome, I know, but I 
can wait from one Sunday to another.” 

“I thank you, Susan, but I’m going south—no, to the Philip¬ 
pines, or somewhere for a couple years,” answered Robert in 
desperation. 

“Now, Robert, that’s no way to do.” 

“Why, Susan?” 

“Because I’ve quit Dudley.” 

“I don’t understand you, Susan.” 

“I mean simply this, Robert; I like you better.” 

“Now, Susan, you must remember that the boys in the cities 
go with all the girls.” 

“Well, you know that’s not the way we did back home, and 
that’s not the way our burgomaster taught us.” 

“Oh, they’re back-woodsy back home, and the burgomasters, 
they are old ‘fogies’.” 

“I believe I’d rather be a little old-fashioned than to be so 
swift.” 

“You’ll see things differently after a while, after you learn 
and know New York.” 

“Goodby, Robert, you needn’t come to see me any more.” 

“Now, Susan, be reasonable—I’m your friend.” 

“Goodby, Robert. I give one fellow all my love, and I ex¬ 
pect all of his in return.” 

“Goodby, Susan; I’ll see you in a month or so.” 

“No, Robert, I guess you’d better not come.” 

“You would let me call upon you fashionably, wouldn’t 
you ?” 

“You wouldn’t be welcome, Robert.” 

As Robert thoughtfully meandered away from Susan’s room¬ 
ing-house, he thoughtfully muttered to himself: 

“Now she’s mad. She’s in love with me and wants to marry 
me. What’s a fellow going to do? If I even smile at a girl 
she thinks I’m going to marry her. I must be an unusual 
fellow, or all the girls wouldn’t fall in love with me at sight. 
Is it I, or is it my clothes?” 

Susan was heart-broken. She was a simple, frank, innocent, 


DISAPPOINTMENTS 


101 


country girl, unused to the restraints and conventions of city 
life. Her motives were pure and noble, and she believed 
every young man to be honest and sincere. She thought that 
when a young man took her to the theater two or three times 
that he was in love, that they were engaged, that soon they 
would be married. 


XIII 


College Life 

The peach trees were in bloom. All creation was astir with 
the quickening freshness of spring. Grace, too, was sub¬ 
consciously happy since Dudley's lady friend had been gotten 
out of her father's offices. The students at Belmont were bub¬ 
bling over with vivacity and expectancy because of their base¬ 
ball team. It was as yet an untried quantity, but the Bel- 
montians were very hopeful; in fact, their enthusiasm had 
reached the boiling point. The first game was with Blair two 
weeks hence, and the outcome was now being discussed with 
fervor in all of the congregating places of the student body. 
Many are the athletic victories that are won in the drawing¬ 
room; many are the foes that are vanquished in the mi nds of 
men who frequent cigar stores, fraternity halls, and barber¬ 
shops on the eve of battle. 

Robert Tadmore was the elusive college twirler, and Bel¬ 
mont had more faith in his athletic accomplishments than it 
had in the strength of Gibraltar. In truth the entire college 
had an unfaltering confidence in him; and Robert had supreme 
confidence in himself—a combination that usually wins. 

Young Tadmore was the sole possessor of a high-grade, 
high-powered, seven-passenger limousine. His colored chauffeur 
was a fast, but skillful driver. He was, in truth, a colored 
autocrat, and naturally he commanded a big salary. At least 
five times each week this dignified, well-groomed gentleman with 
the flashy Tadmore machine made a trip to New York, start¬ 
ing at five o'clock, arriving in time to take dinner at a 
fashionable cafe, and returning near two A. M. Robert would 
have gone every night, but “Friday” refused to make the trip 
more than five times each week, and “Friday” seemed to be 
boss. Grace Conkling, Helen Hunt, a sorority friend, and 
Robert with two of his fashionable fraters usually made the 
pilgrimage to the metropolis on two of the evenings, during 
which the party went, after dinner, either to the theater or to 

102 


COLLEGE LIFE 


103 


some special social function. Robert was host, and of course 
Robert paid the bills. 

On the other three evenings of the week the ladies remained 
in Belmont while Robert and five of his more congenial 
friends made the trip to gilded halls, to gaming table, to places 
where intoxicants were served by women in scarlet, to the 
regions of the underworld of New York. 

It was a gay, fast life that young Tadmore was living. He, 
like many other young men, imagined that he was drinking 
nectar and having a great time. He frequently said to him¬ 
self: 

“Why should a young man toil ? I hate work. I don’t have 
to labor. I hate duty. Good fortune is my pal. I have money, 
I have physical strength, I have friends innumerable, I have 
social standing—what more could an intelligent, promising 
young man ask for? Studying is a dog’s life. It’s so much 
easier to slide through college with a jolly laugh and a happy- 
go-lucky spirit. A joke and a laugh will take you farther 
than a perfect lesson. Yes, I’ve decided to ‘jolly’ my way 
through life and let the foolish, let those who will labor and 
toil and struggle.” 

It was now the time of year when all creation is in love, 
when chivalrous, promising young men, and modest, gracious 
young ladies go strolling—go strolling through the parks and 
across the campuses away from the haunts of men. They are 
under the enchanted spell of the dreamy, hazy atmosphere of 
spring. It is enervating, and it has magic perched upon its 
wings. These are serious moments. These are dangerous mo¬ 
ments. Lovers are as helpless as babes in the woods. No 
words are spoken; but a glance, a nod, the pressure of the hand 
betrays the secret of the heart. There is a language of the 
soul—it is psychic—that speaks louder than words. Though 
the promenade be in silence, and all creation be hushed and 
still, yet the soul speaks volubly. 

Yes, springtime is mating-time, and it always brings its 
crop of love affairs out of college and in college, as surely 
as it brings its crop of onions in our gardens. It is an un¬ 
written law of collegedom that a young man must scatter his 
affections; still, the lawbreakers are many. But what matters 
the rules of college ethics when a young man is in love? 
You’d just as well try to dam back the ocean tides. Taunts 
and ridicule are ineffective, for a young man in love rather 


104 


THE LONGDENS 


likes to be teased because of what it implies. But, if after 
a while the storm of ridicule becomes too biting, too scathing, 
the young fellow simply displays the American spirit of inde¬ 
pendence, and asserts boldly that he will pay his respects to 
any young lady he pleases and that it is nobody’s business. 

The table at which Grace and Robert ate was a very fashion¬ 
able one. Only the socially select were allowed to enter there. 
It was exclusive. Its membership consisted of a sorority and 
a fraternity which considered themselves the cream of the 
college. The fraternity system is the college system of castes. 
It is usually based upon social supremacy, and social su¬ 
premacy is always based upon snobbishness. 

The entire first floor of the ladies’ dormitory, save a parlor 
and an office and a kitchen, was one immense dining hall. 
There were some twenty large tables in all, each of which ac¬ 
commodated some thirty students. The diners at each table 
were presumably equal, socially; but woe be unto that creature, 
be he male or female, that dared to presume, that dared to 
intrude—you have seen robins and blackbirds at war when each 
wanted the same tree for a nesting place; and you have seen 
the feathers fall, and heard the wild shrieks of battle. 

Grace and Helen were talking confidentially in their room 
while making their toilet for dinner. Grace ejaculated in glee: 

“Oh, I forgot; I have an invitation to the dance.” 

“For—?” 

“Thursday evening—the grand ball, you know.” 

“Who from?” 

“Oh, one of the Deltas.” 

“Robert, of course?” 

“Yes.” 

“How grand! but it seems, Grace, that you’re always in 
• luck.” 

“You received no invitation?” 

“Yes, but shocking! it was from a Sigma, and I hate the 
Sigmas—they have absolutely no social standing.” 

“That is true, Helen, but they’re good students.” 

“Good students! What does scholarship amount to? You 
can make a student out of a fox terrier, but social excellence 
is inborn—it cannot be bought or sold.” 

“Helen, I fear that you are a little narrow—all of the 
Sigmas are delightfully dependable fellows.” 


COLLEGE LIFE 


105 


"They’re hayseeds, I tell you—nothing but hayseeds—and 
you know it, Grace Conkling.” 

"Anyway, you’d get to go. It’s going to be a full-dress affair, 
I guess. Everybody and his dog will be there. There’s no fun 
in staying at home.” 

"Fun! What fun would there be in chopping your own 
head off? What would the Deltas think? And what would 
they do? They simply never would invite me again to go 
with them. They’d sneer at me, and say: ‘Heh! she must be 
small potatoes or she wouldn’t go with a threadbare Sigma to 
such a pretentious social function as a grand ball. Why, 
Grace, it would be far wiser for me to stay at home and go 
to bed.” 

"I see your point of view, Helen. It is quite true that it 
might give you a social setback. I had not thought of it that 
way.” 

"Not only that: it would hurt our sorority, for it would 
certainly be a reflection. Grace, you certainly know that it’s 
social prestige that counts above everything else in this world.” 

"I’d simply ask one of the Deltas to take me.” 

"Would you, really?” 

"I certainly would.” 

"I just believe I will, Grace—I hadn’t thought of that.” 

"Sure I would. If they wish to monopolize our sorority 
and hobnob with its members, the Deltas should see to it that 
all of our members get to attend all the important social func¬ 
tions.” 

"I’m not going to be a social outcast—I’ll quit Belmont and 
go to some other college first.” 

"I’ll drop a hint, Helen. You’ll get a ‘bid’ all right.” 

“Do speak a word, Grace. I don’t want to go with a hay¬ 
seed.” 

Grace and Helen now started downstairs, arm in arm, to 
dinner. Robert was just coming up the steps to the dormitory. 
Grace whispered excitedly: 

"Walk slow, Helen! Walk slow! but as soon as Robert 
speaks to us, you walk quickly on, and I’ll go fishing for you.” 

"Thank you, Grace—I’ll do as much for you some day,” 
answered Helen imploringly, and she accordingly stepped 
briskly forward as Robert approached. 

"How do you do, Miss Conkling? questioned Robert 
debonairly. 


106 


THE LONGDENS 


“Why how do you do ?” answered Grace with dignity. 

“Which will you have for dinner, Miss Conkling, rabbit or 
’possum*?” 

“Neither, if you please.” 

“Ditto.” . 

“Which will you take, Mr. Tadmore, greens or hominy? 

“Why, yes; I’ll take a few greens and a little hominy.” 

“Say, Robert, Helen has no company for the grand ball 
Thursday eve.” 

“She hasn’t?” 

“And she wishes to go very much.” 

“I’ll certainly look after Helen’s interests.” 

“A ‘Sig’ wanted to take her, but she refused him.” 

“You tell Helen that I’ll arrange affairs for her all right. 
We boys had matters all fixed out— Stowers was to take her, 
but he was called home on account of sickness.” 

“Oh, that way. Helen and I both wondered.” 

They had now reached their table and soon were eating 
prunes and greens. Robert smiled and whispered to Grace: 

“Prunes and greens! Didn’t I tell you?” 

“Oh, you said greens and hominy, and there’s quite a differ¬ 
ence between prunes and hominy.” 

“Not so much, now; grandma eats prunes, and grandpa eats 
hominy; so, you see, they’re pretty much the same.” 

“Excuse me—I forgot that but few men ever make mis¬ 
takes. But when’s our first ball game?” 

“One week from Saturday, with our old friend and rival, 
Blair,” replied Robert with enthusiasm. 

“Of course we’ll beat them.” 

“Yea, verily—if our luck holds out.” 

“Luck? I trust you’re not depending upon luck to carry 
you through.” 

“Oh no, still luck is always a very desirable pal on the field 
of sports as well as in the game of life.” 

“Do you pronounce millionaires the direct resultant of 
luck?” 

“In a sense, yes; in another sense, no. I believe three ele¬ 
ments enter into the making of a millionaire: luck, foresight 
and greed. Sometimes one is the prevailing and determining 
factor, and sometimes another, and sometimes all three are 
equal factors. By greed I mean that selfish motive in man 
which causes him to buy, or ‘freeze out’ all his competitors that 


COLLEGE LIFE 


107 


he may get rid of competition, or to ‘fix’ prices with compet¬ 
itors so the business will yield an enormous and exorbitant 
profit.” 

“That’s enough—the water’s getting too deep.” 

“Do you have anything under Dr. Propper?” 

“Yes, ethics.” 

“Isn’t he grouchy?” 

“That depends.” 

“Depends upon what?” 

“Upon whether he has seen Miss Moon before class. If 
he has had the delightful pleasure of walking to East College 
with her, he is as sweet as a sugar lump and as debonair as 
a dandy; but if he hasn’t seen her, he’s equal to a bearcat.” 

“I guess then I have unfortunately been around him when 
he was playing the part of the bearcat.” 

“Really, at times he’s as delightful as a dish of dead-ripe 
strawberries and cream,” replied Grace. 

“I believe I’ll see what Miss Moon will charge to sit beside 
him during my recitation hour,” replied Robert with an in¬ 
fectious smile. 

“Such an arrangement might prove a good investment. Has 
he really been rude?” 

“Rude ? I pronounce him a pug and a grouch, a man with¬ 
out breeding or civility.” 

“Economics is my most enjoyable study, but Professor Whit¬ 
taker is certainly a peculiar fellow. He puts his nose glasses 
on his thumb, just so, plays on his fingers as you play on a 
slide trombone, and then he concatenates everything.” 

“I have never heard of that kind of a cat.” 

“I presume not; it’s a very rare species, but we have too 
many of them, we’re simply overrun with them, in our class¬ 
room.” 

Thus the peculiarities and eccentricities of the various pro¬ 
fessors were carefully vivisected throughout the rest of the 
noonday meal. To you who do not already know, listen! a 
bunch of college students is the most critical jury in the world. 
There is no subject or super-subject which they do not deem 
themselves competent to pass upon, and" they do so, too, with 
a peculiar relish and an unfaltering officiousness that causes 
abler men to look aghast. 

Grace and Helen had invited two sorority girls to their 
room to a chafing-dish party on this Saturday evening. 


108 


THE LONGDENS 


Saturday evening is always an evening of relaxation and di¬ 
version. Then every student is out for a good time and fre¬ 
quently the festivities encroach upon the Sabbath. 

Grace and Helen’s company arrived at seven-thirty. One 
was a blonde, the other a brunette. Grace at once started the 
oyster stew, followed with small cubes of toast and ended with 
fudge. In the course of events one of the invited guests, the 
blonde, remarked: 

“Grace, you and Robert seem to be very much interested in 
each other.” 

“Why not? We are taking biology, and right now we are 
studying tadpoles.” 

“Indeed! And Robert’s your specimen? Have you really 
traced him as far back as the tadpole?” 

“Yes; in fact, Robert is still a tadpole—I told him so.” 

“And you have traced him through the monkey stage?” 

“As I said, he has not got that far along,” smiled Grace 
demurely. 

“It must be interesting—I believe I’ll take biology.” 

“Do! You know a biologist studies all sorts of animals.” 

The girls laughed and Grace continued more seriously: 

“Sincerely, girls, Robert’s a friend, but nothing more.” 

“How do we know?” queried Helen with a wink and a 
giggle. 

“Oh, I’ll confess that Robert’s a breezy, likable fellow with 
plenty of ginger,” interposed Grace. 

“He’s the best dressed man I ever knew,” suggested the 
brunette guest. 

“He has such a clean, ruddy countenance which is a sure 
sign of good morals and perfect health,” replied Grace 
eulogistically. 

“He must shave twice a day,” interposed Helen. 

“Perhaps he decapitates each whisker as soon as it peeps 
out,” interposed the blonde. 

“I have never known Robert Tadmore to wear the improper 
thing. He knows what to wear and when to wear it, and he 
has the togs to wear; so what more do you want?” explained 
Helen confidentially. 

“His wardrobe has certainly cost something,” interposed 
the brunette. 

“Not less than five thousand, I should say,” suggested Helen 
with abandon, 


COLLEGE LIFE 


109 


“I believe I could expend four thousand of it to a better 
advantage.” 

“You’d probably do just as he has done, if you had as 
much money as he has. What I admire about Mr. Tadmore is 
his physical make-up. He’s a perfect specimen of health, 
happiness and good cheer. He’s a delightful concoction of 
good nature, kindness, polish and politeness,” eulogized Grace. 

“Grace is always a lucky mortal,” interposed Helen. 

“Are we invited?” queried the brunette. 

“No, you’re not,” spoke Grace decisively, and then she 
continued, “I tell you we’re no more than friends—I mean 
Robert and I. Papa has a great deal to say about such in¬ 
significant matters, and no one that I know of has ever yet 
dreamed of asking his approval.” 

“A church wedding, I suppose,” commented the blonde in¬ 
differently. 

“She’s already promised me that I might be bridesmaid,” 
remarked Helen. 

“It’s false. It’s not true. She has prevaricated. She’s a 
traitor. I’m in the hands of my enemies. Police! Help!” 
shouted Grace in a loud voice followed by a luminous smile. 

Thus the fun and hilarity and jollity continued until mid¬ 
night when each bid the rest adieu and repaired to her room. 


XIV 


Dudley and Anna 

Dudley Longden was wasting no opportunities. He had 
diligently and devotedly attended night school; he had studied 
doggedly and conscientiously; he had improved his English un¬ 
believably. He had broadened the horizon of his life a hun¬ 
dredfold, had become acquainted with the manners and cus¬ 
toms of metropolitan life, had put away boyish fancies and 
had become a thinker. Being jostled and elbowed and buffeted 
by the constant flow of the human tide no longer annoyed him, 
or attracted his attention, except casually. He had now be¬ 
come acclimated. He really enjoyed the many phases and 
diversions of urban life. He would not now go back to his 
father’s farm even though it should be given to him, if it 
were given on the condition that he should cultivate it and 
live upon it. 

True, Susan’s high-handed and unexpected course had tem¬ 
porarily stunned Dudley. He was chagrined, mortified, offended 
and his heart was bleeding, but he was as stoical as an Indian 
brave. No one knew or ever would know that he had been 
jilted. He still saw Susan occasionally and always addressed 
her politely and considerately, but the old-time regard for 
her resembled the ashes and charred ruins of a fire in the 
clearing—a fire that was dead, although it once roared and 
crackled and burned most ardently. 

He had now become proficient as a linotype operator, but no 
one knew save Dudley’s tutor and Mr. Conkling. Dudley 
had considerately, before he started, secured the editor’s full 
consent and permission. Now he was doing one-half of his 
tutor’s work after supper. But the information was broad¬ 
casted that Dudley’s tutor did one-half of his work after sup¬ 
per, thereby making it unnecessary for him to come to work 
until after lunch each day. However, Mr. Roberts had violated 
one of the primary rules of the union; namely, that of teach¬ 
ing an outsider the art of operating a linotype machine; but 
Mr. Roberts was intensely human; yes, he was selfishly human. 

no 


DUDLEY AND ANNA 


111 


He was getting the best of it. He was getting a full day’s pay 
for a half day’s work—why not cultivate the morning-glory? 

Dudley had now made many friends. He was in better re¬ 
pute. He was courteous and kindly and accommodating. Every¬ 
body showed him consideration and deference. His enemies 
had become his friends. The time was, when life meant little 
to him, but now living was a joy unspeakable, and New York 
was a city of promise. 

Since Susan had sidestepped him Dudley had been stead¬ 
fastly keeping his eye on Anna Bridgeport, a young lady in 
the mailing department of “The Knickerbocker.” Anna’s 
father was a walking delegate of the Printer’s Union. She 
was a pretty girl with plump, rotund cheeks, regular features, 
a clear complexion, and wore the clothes of an Egyptian 
princess. However she was proud and arrogant, overbearing 
and unkindly in her ways, and naturally she was a radical 
unionist. 

Anna really loved Dudley, but she had not forgotten how 
inconsiderately he had been ridiculed when he first entered 
“The Knickerbocker” offices; and she held herself aloof, like 
a great many people of the present day, until she discovered 
the drift—both the ebb and the flow—of public opinion. 
Besides, Dudley was too thrifty to suit her artistic fancy 
which had visions of innumerable fine clothes, a fine auto¬ 
mobile, and expensive dinner parties. No, Dudley was not 
stylish enough; his clothes were too plain and too painfully 
cheap; his trousers bagged too much at the knees; his coat 
had seen the cleaners too seldom; his cravat was too old and 
too threadbare; and his hair was too long—in short, he was 
too miserly and too thrifty to suit her aesthetic nature. Anna 
expended her money—all her money—on clothes while Dudley 
expended but little; she saved not a cent, while he placed 
ninety per cent of his money in the bank. 

On this beautiful November evening Anna was late in finish¬ 
ing her work. Dudley, noticing that she was working after 
hours, approached her diffidently and very considerately 
offered his services, saying: 

“Anna, can I help you any?” 

“No, thank you, Dudley—I’m just through.” 

“How was that apple?” 

“Oh, it was simply delicious, Dudley. So it was you that 
placed that luscious Grimes Golden on my desk?” 


112 


THE LONGDENS 


“It may have been, Anna.” 

“I found a box of chocolates in my desk, too.” 

“Indeed!” 

“Guilty or not guilty 1 ?” 

“It isn’t fair to make a fellow convict himself.” 

“You look guilty, so HI just fine you—yes, I’ll just fine you 
another box of chocolates to be delivered at my desk two 
days hence,” heartily laughed Anna. 

“Have you joined the Printer’s Union, Dudley?” she con¬ 
tinued. 

“Not yet, Anna.” 

“Why don’t you join? Why do you hesitate?” 

“I can’t afford it.” 

“No, Dudley, that isn’t it; union wages are always higher 
than non-union wages.” 

“Anna, I just can’t make demands upon Mr. Conkling— 
that man has been a father to me.” 

“Now, that’s afi buncombe, Dudley. Haven’t you earned 
every cent of the money that you have received?” 

“I think so, and perhaps more.” 

“Then why are you so chicken-hearted?” 

“Simply beause Mr. Conkling took me in when I was down 
and out, when I was hungry, when I didn’t have a cent in 
my pocket. He took me in when everybody else had turned me 
down. He was a friend when no one else cared, a friend when 
I sorely needed a friend.” 

“Then you think for that, you ought to be a slave the 
balance of your days?” 

“No, not that, Anna. I’m not a slave.” 

“Some of the union operators think you are an operator.” 

“Where did they get that idea?” 

“They have heard a linotype machine going as late as twelve 
o’clock at night.” 

“I never was in a printshop until I came to New York.” 

“Anyway, they think that someone is playing traitor.” 

“They’ll have to prove that, Anna.” 

“Besides they are getting ‘sore’ because you do not join the 
union.” 

“Anna, frankly, I think too much of Mr. Conkling to join 
the union at this time.” 

“You don’t think very much of me then.” 

“Why, I thought that Mr. Conkling was a friend of yours.” 


DUDLEY AND ANNA 


113 


“No man who has money is a friend of labor, Dudley.” 

Dudley’s eyes now were downcast. He thought for a mo¬ 
ment and then replied: 

“Anna, what would we poor folks do, if it were not for 
men of wealth?” 

“We’d live like kings, that’s what we’d do.” 

“But how?” he asked. 

“Wouldn’t we get the money that these vultures of wealth 
accumulate?” 

“But how would we get our start? Who’d employ us? 
Nobody could employ us except a person who had money.” 

“If the laboring man got all that was coming to him , we 
wouldn’t have any poor folks,” argued Anna. 

“Your notion of things is a little hazy, it seems to me.” 

“Of course you’d say so—you’re an enemy of labor and 
always have been.” 

“No, Anna. I’m poor and, naturally, I have no good reason 
for being unfriendly to labor.” 

“I believe that you’re nothing more than a spy working 
in Mr. Conkling’s interests.” 

“Why Anna Bridgeport!” 

“If all the laboring people would only stand together for 
a while, we’d all be rich folks.” 

“Do you mean that we’d all be just like Mr. Conkling?” 

“Exactly.” 

“I thought you disliked Mr. Conkling, and did not approve 
of his methods.” 

“I don’t,” said the girl. 

“Why do you dislike him, if you want to be like him?” 
asked Dudley. 

“I’d like to have his money.” 

“I thought you said that the man with money was an enemy 
of labor.” 

“I did,” said Anna. 

“Then if you had money, you’d be our enemy?” 

“I didn’t say that, Dudley. You’re always trying to pick a 
fellow to pieces.” 

“Then I misunderstood you.” 

“I guess you did,” answered Anna pertly as she reached 
for her hat and parasol. 

“If you’ll wait until I bolt the rear doors, I’ll walk home 
with you—it’s such a delightful evening.” 


114 


THE LONGDENS 


“I don’t know whether I want to go with you or not.” 

Dudley turned and regarded her in a sort of a quizzical way, 
but he spoke not a word. Anna was now battling between love 
and arrogance. In a moment she commanded imperiously: 

“Well, hurry, if you’re going.” 

Dudley turned and quickly bolted the rear doors and 
hastily returned to the place where Anna was waiting. He 
regarded her with inquiring eyes, reached for her parasol 
and they started; but no words were spoken while they were 
quitting “The Knickerbocker” offices. As the two walked 
deliberately down the street, Dudley occasionally regarded 
Anna with admiring eyes. Her clothes were pretentious, 
almost royal in their richness. He really couldn’t under¬ 
stand how she could afford them. He couldn’t understand 
where she got them or how. Then he wondered—he wondered 
as all men wonder when they see an over-dressed woman. A 
neatly dressed woman is a joy forever, but an over-dressed 
woman is doing herself a great injury. 

Then Dudley’s eyes wandered to Anna’s exquisite counte¬ 
nance which was almost perfect in its symmetry, which was 
plush-like in its texture, which had a lingering charm that 
was almost divine in its freshness and its purity. In spirit 
he could not but fall down and worship her, for she had all 
the qualities of a goddess, but—then he hesitated—he remem¬ 
bered her flaming temper and her venomous tongue; and he 
concluded that she, too, must be made of clay; he concluded 
that she must be a shrew. However, there is something that 
draws a man on, although a thousand small voices may bo 
whispering, “Beware!” He always thinks that he can turn 
back; he always thinks that he is master of the situation; 
he is not afraid. 

They had almost gone a square, when Dudley remarked: 

“Anna, maybe you’d rather take a car; perhaps you’d rather 
not walk home tonight.” 

“Then you think the crowded sidewalks are no place for 
gourds ?” 

“No—rosebuds.” 

Anna smiled and Dudley chuckled. In a moment she 
queried : 

“Dudley, why don’t you wear better clothes?” 

“I can’t afford them, Anna.” 

“Can’t afford to be decent?” 


DUDLEY AND ANNA 115 

“I didn’t know that poverty was indecent,” answered 
Dudley. 

“Dudley, you’re certainly not a ‘living model.* ” 

W I don’t want to be, Anna.” 

“Maybe that’s your trouble.” 

“Iiu not having any trouble that I know of.” 

“What do you do with your money?” she asked. 

“Save it,” he replied laconically. 

“What good would it do you, if you should die tomorrow?” 

“I’m not expecting to die tomorrow, and it might do me 
considerable good the day after tomorrow.” 

“I’d rather be respected now than when I’m eighty,” said 
Anna. 

“Then it takes clothes to command respect?” he asked. 

“Undeniably. Men are so slow, so dense, so obtuse.” 

“Why not say ignorant?” Anna. 

“I guess I will,” 

“Now recurring to what you said about being respected at 
eighty: naturally, everybody would like to be respected now 
and then, but I’d ten times over rather not be respected now if 
by so doing, I’ll be a pauper when I’m eighty. ‘Of all sad 
words of tongue or pen — * you know the rest.” 

“I spend my money and get the good out of it,” insisted 
Anna. 

“I save twenty-five dollars a week.” 

“For land’s sake, boy I how much do you get ?” 

“More than twenty-five.” 

“You could be somebody if you would.” 

“Thank you. I say, ‘thank you* once more. I’d rather be 
nobody and have a bank account than to be somebody and be 
dead broke.” 

“Then you’re exactly what you want to be?” asked Anna. 

The arrogance and the toss of the head that accompanied 
this remark angered Dudley considerably, but he waited until 
he had lashed his temper into subjection before he replied: 

“Allow me to repeat, Anna; I’d rather be a tramp with a 
hundred dollars in my pocket than be a fashion-plate without 
a cent in my pocket. Now you can draw your own con¬ 
clusions.” 

“Are you alluding to me, sir?” 

“I said, ‘fashion-plate’ — you’re not a fashion-plate aro you ?” 

“I don’t like your insinuations,” replied the girl angrily. 


116 


THE LONGDENS 


“You shouldn’t try to wear shoes that don’t fit you.” 

“Perhaps not.” 

“I always had a horror of dying a poor man. It’s pitiable, 
I tell you; it’s heart-rending to be a public charge in the 
evening of life. Too many find it out too late. I’d rather 
die with a bank account, I say.” 

“Foolish man! Our hardest worked men today are million¬ 
aires over sixty. They have brainstorms, insomnia, and 
nervous debility. They are nervous wrecks. They can’t sleep, 
they can’t eat, they can’t die. They are to be pitied; they are 
miserable and they make everybody else miserable. 

“You are talking about a fool now. A hog and a miser 
ought to have brainstorm, but even this is not more harrow¬ 
ing than that of having a quartette of starving children cry¬ 
ing around your doorstep, crying, I say, for bread. Such a 
man doesn’t dare to die. He’d probably be glad to die, but, if 
he has any conscience he doesn’t dare to die,” Dudley argued. 

“All millionaires have more of a jaded look than our street 
cleaners,” said Anna. 

“That’s their fault. The millionaire can always go to 
Florida in winter and to Canada in the summer, but the street 
cleaner goes to work. He was born a drudge and he’ll die 
a drudge.” 

“This is exactly what I say would happen to you were it not 
for the Printer’s Union, Dudley. All of us poor creatures would 
be working for fifty cents a day if it were not for our be¬ 
loved union.” 

“The American laborer is the best paid man in the world 
today,” said Dudley. 

“That doesn’t prove anything. There may be different de¬ 
grees of hell for all I know. I believe the laboring man is the 
‘goat’ of the world. The poor man has pork shank for dinner, 
while the boss has turkey. The poor man has made his boss 
what he is; he has poured out his vitality and his life-blood for 
his employer, but when the cake is cut, the laboring man gets 
the crumbs.” 

“You just said that the millionaires of today are more 
jaded than our street cleaners. That’s the best answer that I 
can give you when you say that labor is the ‘goat’ of the world. 
If the man of wealth is debilitated at forty, while the laboring 
man is well preserved at sixty, who deserves our sympathy?” 

“But you didn’t agree with me,” said Anna. 


DUDLEY AND ANNA 


117 


No, I don’t agree with you now. I say it is unnecessary 
for a millionaire to be jaded at forty, but I grant you that 
such is usually the case; and I further say that every laboring 
man ought to prosper and enjoy and be thrifty and have a 
home of his own if he takes care of his wages.” 

You’re stubborn. You wouldn’t be convinced of any¬ 
thing.” 

“I g^nt you that the laboring man should he well paid.” 

“It’s a wonder,” said the girl. 

“The laboring man deserves every consideration. He de¬ 
serves a home, he deserves decent clothes, he deserves an op¬ 
portunity to go to church and to educate his family, the 
laboring man deserves to live long and well,” added Dudley. 

“That’s saying a good deal for you, but you haven’t gone far 
enough; he deserves to be wealthy; the wealth of the world 
ought to be redistributed, and everybody ought to be given 
his proportionate share.” 

“How would you fairly redistribute the wealth of the 
world?” asked the boy. 

“That’s easy. I’d simply divide all the wealth of the world 
into as many parts as there are men, women and children 
in the world,” said Anna. 

“How long would everybody stay equal?” 

“Until a few shoats like Conkling took advantage of some 
of the rest of us.” 

“I don’t think of the rich man as you do. I regard him as 
a benefactor. If a certain man or combination of men have 
superior managing ability, if they have more ‘ginger’ than 
the rest of us, if they are geniuses in finance, if they have an 
uncanny insight into the future and can see clearer and farther 
than other men, then I see no reason why they are not en¬ 
titled to their reward.” 

“There’s no use in us discussing this question; you couldn’t 
convince me in twenty years,” said Anna. 

“On the contrary I’m open to conviction. If you can show 
me wherein I am wrong, I’m willing to acknowledge it,” replied 
Dudley. 

“I wouldn’t try to convince any young man, especially a 
fresh, smart young man just from the country, Dudley.” 

“I certainly beg your pardon if I have been ‘fresh.’ I did 
not intend to be. In fact, I always try to be frank, fair, and 
unprejudiced.” 


118 


THE LONGDENS 


They had now reached Anna’s unpretentious home. Dudley 
started confidently up the walk, but Anna suddenly stopped 
him, saying: 

“You’d better not go any farther, Dudley, papa s angry be¬ 
cause you have not joined the union.” 

“Then I certainly beg your pardon.” 

“You know father is a walking delegate and it would not 
look just right, he thinks, for a non-union man to call upon 
his daughter.” 

“Very well. Goodnight,” replied Dudley as he politely 
raised his hat and started toward the heart of the metropolis. 


XV 


Those Troublesome Reporters 

University life at Belmont with its friendships, its hopes, 
and its promises progressed with few variations throughout 
the balance of the college year. As heretofore, it was punctu¬ 
ated with sorority dances and social functions, with lectures 
and recitals, with joys and fears, with the constant clamor 
for athletic prestige and social preferment. All the while the 
friendship of Grace and Robert was gradually ripening not 
only into a warmer friendship, but into love and adoration. 

It was soon spring again. Time hurries rapidly past for 
those who toil earnestly and those who love ardently. The 
anaesthesia of love and the anaesthesia of work are more 
potent than absinthe in burying the lagging moments in the 
sea of forgetfulness. 

Young Tadmore still made pilgrimages to New York. 
He always played the role of host and paymaster, and, natu¬ 
rally, he had a host of friends—in truth his friendship was 
very much prized and very diligently sought after by all 
collegedom, for it had an actual cash value. 

Late in May in this, his junior year, Robert planned an 
elaborate banquet for his more intimate masculine friends, 
some sixty in all. This banquet was served at a fashionable 
hostelry in New York, and was afterward denominated “The 
Feast of Belshazzar.” The gentlemen made the journey to 
the metropolis in full-dress suits and high-speed automobiles. 
The banquet was served in the “Gold Room.” The decorations 
were prodigal, being both costly and elaborate. Four sup¬ 
posedly beautiful girls occupied thrones near the center 
of each of the four sides of the banquet hall. Each girl 
represented one of the four seasons of the year, and each 
throne was an elaborately decorated bower in keeping with 
the season that it represented. 

Between each of these gaudily bedecked goddesses played a 
prodigious fountain upon floating patches of full-blown water 
lilies. American beauties were not only smiling from wall- 
pockets everywhere, but they were festooned about the room. 

119 


120 


THE LONGDENS 


The lighting was brilliant if not dazzling. The dining-table 
was circular. The waiters served from the center. Three 
immense spheres were suspended from the ceiling. They were 
covered with royal purple and festooned with smilax and 
sweet peas. As soon as the guests were seated, the top halves 
of the spheres raised, while the lower halves lowered. In the 
lower half of each sphere sat four enticing girls serenely fan¬ 
ning themselves. They were exquisitely gowned, and their 
cheeks and their lips had the ardor of the red, red rose; but 
it was not the handiwork of nature—it was a hand-painting. 
The young ladies pretended to be modest, blushed innocently 
and demurely, wore a few strings of pearls, some diamonds, 
flowing streamers and a smile. As soon as the spheres reached 
the floor, the girls sprang to their feet, waltzed to a nearby 
platform especially arranged for the evening and gave the 
dance of “Spring.” After this they gave portions of “Salome,” 
and “Cleopatra,” and several serpentine dances to the great 
delight of Robert’s Belmontian guests. After a program of 
some thirty moments, these denizens of fairyland served the 
assembled students tempting eatables, fascinating smiles, shy 
glances, and debonair bows. 

Soon the wines and champagnes were served. Robert drank 
freely and greedily as he proposed toast after toast to this 
and that dancing girl. Finally he was drunk, crazy drunk. 
What a time he was having! Things were going around. He 
thought the table was a merry-go-round; and, with the as¬ 
sistance of two of his friends, he climbed right upon the 
merry-go-round and made many fiery and impassioned, but 
senseless speeches. Someway, he could not keep his balance. 
He seemed to be doing some tight-rope walking. Suddenly he 
authoritatively commanded a half-score of his pals to follow 
him. They could do naught but obey; so he, followed by his 
comrades, boldly strode down the center of the table, upset¬ 
ting rare pieces of china and breaking innumerable cut glass 
nappies and vases and water jugs. Finally the table gave 
away. The crash of the falling china was more than dis¬ 
concerting, it was terrifying. The banquet had degenerated 
into an orgy. The students wildly, but ardently embraced the 
dancing girls. This was, in truth, the “Feast of Belshazzar.” 

The hotel management naturally became alarmed and called 
the police lest all of its elegant furniture and rare china 
might be totally destroyed. The police quickly responded; but 


THOSE TROUBLESOME REPORTERS 


121 


as they entered one door the banqueters went out an opposite 
door, save Mr. Tadmore, who was so drunk that he could 
not tell a policeman from the Queen of Sheba. In fact he was 
lying prone upon the floor, helpless and alone. He looked 
wildly about as does everyone who is in the throes of an 
intoxicating stupor. Seeing no one, he shouted angrily: 

“Where’s everybody?” 

“We’re all here,” answered one of the officers. 

“Come and drink with me,” begged Tadmore. 

“I’m afraid—afraid it’s hair tonic. You don’t look good 
to me.” 

“Are you a friend of mine?” 

“Sure; I’m going to see you through.” 

“What, what did you say?” asked Tadmore. 

“What does all this broken china mean?” asked the officer. 

“Well sir—is anybody listenin’?” 

“No, I think not.” 

“Then, Pll I’ll tell you— are you a pal of mine?” 

“Sure I’m one of your pals.” 

“Well, I got drunk.” 

“You’re a-jokin’ me,” said the policeman. 

“No, I’m not; I’m teflin’ you straight.” 

“You don’t look it.” 

“Really?” asked Tadmore in a maudlin voice. 

“No—o, you don’t look it—you look as fresh as a mornin’- 
glory all covered with dew.” 

“I am, but I guess I got hold of some dew that was doctored.” 

“Whom do you suspect?” asked the policeman. 

“I don’t expect nobody. I don’t want to see nobody. What 
—what’s your name?” 

“McDuff.” 

“McDuff? McDuff? McDuff?” 

“You don’t know me.” 

“No, I guess—I guess I don’t—where are you from?” asked 
Bob. 

“Headquarters. This must have been a high-toned jambo¬ 
ree,” said McDuff. 

“Haven’t you got, haven’t you got on a policeman’s bon¬ 
net?” 

“Maybe I have.” 

“‘You, you’re goin’ to see me through, aren’t you?” 

'‘Sure I’m goin’ to see you through.” 


122 THE LONGDENS 

“You’re sorta clever. Haven’t you got some brass but¬ 
tons on?” 

“No, those are sunflowers.” 

“They’re awful perty,” said Robert. 

“Yes, they’re real sweet.” 

“Maybe you’re a policeman.” 

“I may be, but what does all this mean ?” 

“Who’s mean?” blustered Bob. 

“Come right along with me—you can board with me for a 
while. The patrol wagon is just outside, below.” 

The words “patrol wagon” had an unbelievable sobering 
effect upon the young fellow. He cringed and drew back as 
if from a ghost. He looked about wildly, and questioned 
excitedly: 

“Am I arrested?” 

“You are.” 

It now suddenly dawned upon Robert’s dazed sensibilities 
what the inevitable consequences would be should Grace hear 
of this escapade, and he replied feverishly: 

“Don’t arrest me—have a heart. I’m simply in a little 
tough luck—give me a boost this time and you’ll not regret it. ’ 

“I hate to arrest you, but I’m compelled to do my duty.” 

“I’ve got money. I’ll put up a cash bond. How, how much 
do you want?” 

“Five hundred dollars,” said McDuff. 

“Here’s the five hundred—are we square?” 

“Yes, until tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. You report 
at the police station at ten.” 

“Don’t I get a receipt for that five hundred?” asked Bob. 

“Yes, if you want it.” 

“I want it, unless you want to call it square.” 

The policeman hastily wrote out the receipt, saying: 

“No pussy-footin’ goes in this case—too many people know 
about it.” 

“Very well, pard, I’ll see you at ten o’clock tomorrow,” re¬ 
plied Robert stoically. 

The policeman turned to go, and as he did so, he scrutinized 
the wreckage more closely, saying: 

“This certainly resembles the “Feast of Belshazzar.” 

“If I have the money, what’s the difference?” interposed 
jRobert pertly. 

“It isn’t worrying me any, I assure you.” 


THOSE TROUBLESOME REPORTERS 123 

“Nor me,” curtly answered Robert wbo was trying to as¬ 
sume an air of indifference. 

Now the police were gone, and Robert had gone to the hotel 
management to put up enough money to pay all damages. 
He then wandered out into the street. It was near the break 
of day, and the eastern horizon was saffron. It would soon 
be aflame with the golden splendor of the rising sun. The air 
was refreshing and wholesome. But Robert was apathetic; he 
had a “brown paper” taste and a bulging headache. He was 
tired and sleepy. It was the cold, grey dawn of the morning 
after, and there was no time to waste; the newspaper reporters 
must be hushed up. Should a report of this orgy appear 
in any one of the metropolitan newspapers, it would com¬ 
pletely destroy every vestige of a chance of Robert Tadmore’s 
marrying Grace Conkling. So he bitterly and cynically, but 
doggedly journeyed from newspaper office to news office in his 
determined effort to keep the account of “The Feast of 
Belshazzar” out of print. It was undeniably a long, tedious 
grind, and it cost him innumerable boxes of cigars and 
sheckels untold, but he was successful in “fixing” and “salv¬ 
ing” all the reporters of the various newspaper offices except 
those of “The Knickerbocker.” He had purposely left Mr. 
Conkling’s paper until the last, because the situation here 
was more delicate and more acute, and required more sagacity 
and shrewder diplomacy. 

It was now near eight o’clock. In just one hour Mr. 
Conkling would be at his office. Matters must be fixed up 
before that time. Robert was feeling tough. His head was 
bursting. He went stumbling into the first drug store that he 
came to and ordered a bromo seltzer, after which he rested 
thirty minutes and then drank a cup of coffee and ate two 
pieces of toast. 

Robert now felt considerably refreshed, but he dreaded the 
ordeal before him. He entered the offices of “The Knicker¬ 
bocker” with a nervous, anxious, worried, stealthy look. He 
fully realized that a slip here would be fatal. It would wreck 
his every plan, present and future. 

Few of the employees were on duty; in fact, none save 
Dudley and the two night reporters. Robert had not gone 
more than a dozen paces down the central aisle when he met 
Dudley Longden, face to face. A look of consternation, if 


124 


THE LONGDENS 


not desperation, flitted quickly across his countenance as he 
exclaimed: 

“Why, Dud! I’d forgotten about your being here.” 

“Bob, how are you, old scout ?” 

“I’m all right, I guess.” 

“Where did you come from ? Where are you going to ? What 
are you doing?” 

Robert paid no attention to any of these questions and 
queried: 

“You still work here, Dud?” 

“Yes.” 

“This is certainly an aristocratic place.” 

“You look worried, Bob—what’s the trouble? Are you 
sick?” 

“Oh, I guess I’ve got a bursting headache.” 

“That’s sure too bad, Bob. Are you in New York to stay?” 

“No, I’m still at Belmont.” 

“I suppose you like it.” 

“Oh yes, it’s great—nobody goes there, you know, but 
the swellest people.” 

“Are you still crazy about athletics, Bob?” 

“Why not? An athlete has a higher rating than a college 
professor.” 

“You came down to the theater?” 

“Yes, and to attend to some business. I see that you still 
wear the pin—have you been true?” 

“I certainly have—and you?” 

As Robert was about to answer, he threw his coat back 
revealing his pin which was made of gold instead of wire and 
was set with diamonds. The two now looked keenly into each 
other’s eyes, after which they gripped each other’s right hand 
just so, and shook three times, just so, after which Robert 
spoke in a more confidential voice: 

“Dudley, I’m in trouble.” 

“In trouble ?” \ 

“Yes. Last night I gave a banquet here for some of the 
Belmont boys, and we had champagne. Unfortunately all of 
us got drunk and we upset the tables and broke half the china 
and cut glass. The hotel management got excited and called 
the police.” 

“That’s easy; simply take your medicine by paying your 
fine and then the pain and mortification will all be over. It’s 


THOSE TROUBLESOME REPORTERS 


125 


just like having the toothache: the sooner you have it out, the 
sooner your trouble will be over.” 

“Pm going to do that—yes, I’m willing to have the tooth 
pulled, but that isn’t what is worrying me. These newspaper 
reporters! the sons-of-guns are just like turkey buzzards in 
search of carrion.” 

“Still no one knows you here.” 

“Yes they do. Don’t you fool yourself. I wouldn’t have 
Grace know about this jamboree for all the coal mines in 
Ohio.” 

“Grace?” 

“Yes, Grace Conkling—doesn’t Charles Conkling own and 
manage ‘The Knickerbocker’?” 

“Yes, he does. I now see your point, Bob.” 

“Grace is my sweetheart.” 

“Yes, I see, but what is your plan?” 

“To keep the report of ‘The Feast of Belshazzar,’ as the 
police term it, out of the newspapers.” 

“Change your name.” 

“Like a fool I told the police my name when I was half 
drunk.” 

“But I should think that you could glibly and shrewdly and 
personally explain the escapade to Grace before it appears in 
the papers. I believe she’d forgive and forget.” 

“But we had some dancing girls, too. Grace might ‘stand 
foP the champagne, and the police, and the fine, and the 
broken china, but I’m sure she’d never stand for those skirt 
dancers.” 

“Have you seen the other papers?” 

“I have them all ‘fixed’ except this one.” 

“Mr. Conkling will be here in fifteen minutes—I’ll speak 
to him about it, and rest assured that I’ll do all I can for you, 
Bob.” 

“You fool you, what do you mean? Don’t you know that 
my whole purpose is to keep the report of this affair from 
the Conkling family?” 

“Oh, I see. I thought you merely wanted to keep it from 
Grace.” 

“Why don’t you know that Mr. Conkling would tell his 
daughter?” 

“I guess you are right. I don’t know what to suggest, Bob. 
Have you talked with the night reporters?” 


126 


THE LONGDENS 


“No. Are they the fellows to ‘fix’ here 1 ?” 

“Yes, but I fear, Bob, you can’t do anything with them. 
They’re independent whelps.” 

“I’ve got five hundred dollars in gold if necessary.” 

“I’m sure you couldn’t buy them.” 

“I’ve bought twenty-six of them in less than five hours.” 

“I’ll find out which reporter has written the affair up, and 
then I’ll introduce you.” 

“Now, Dudley, I’m in serious trouble and I want and must 
have all your influence in this matter. If you ever intend to 
give an unfortunate fellow a boost, do it right now. It would 
simply kill me if Grace should hear of this.” 

“Bob, I’m willing to do all that I can, but I’ll frankly con¬ 
fess to you that I haven’t a particle of influence with these 
reporters. I’ll see what I can do.” 

Dudley went hastily to one of the front offices, spoke to a 
night reporter, asked two or three questions, but the reporter 
shook his head decisively, coldly turned his back upon Dudley 
and continued his work. Dudley returned to where Robert was 
standing, saying: 

“He refuses to see you, Bob.” 

“Refuses to see me? The devil and Tom Walker! What 
does this little egotist feed upon that he should be so dic¬ 
tatorial? How much money has he got that he should be so 
independent? He’s a snob and a smarty—I’ll just interview 
the gentleman, anyway.” 

“I don’t believe you’ll have any luck, Bob.” 

Robert paid no attention to Dudley’s words of warning, 
boldly approached the reporter with his customary nonchalance 
and said defiantly: 

“I’m looking for the reporter who has written up ‘The Feast 
of Belshazzar.’ ” 

“I am he.” 

“Have a cigar.” 

“No, I thank you.” 

“Did you ever unintentionally get into an unholy mix-up?” 

“No sir.” 

“Did you ever regret anything when it was too late to 
mend it?” 

“No sir.” 

“Would you help a man up when he’s down?” 

“No sir.” 


THOSE TROUBLESOME REPORTERS 


127 


“Did you ever act a d—n fool?” 

“No sir.” 

“I’ll have to pronounce you a liar—you’re acting a d—n 
fool right now.” 

“Anyway, I can’t be bought and sold.” 

“Did you ever forget anything?” 

“Possibly.” 

“If you’ll forget—forget, I say, to put that ‘write up’ in the 
paper, I’ll count you out—” 

“Stop right there—you haven’t got enough money.” 

“Let me finish, if you please, before you interrupt me. 
I’ll count you out, I say, five hundred dollars in gold which 
you can keep or turn over to the management, provided you 
withhold the source of supply.” 

“You take that up with Mr. Conkling.” 

“Hasn’t this newspaper any space to sell?” 

“Most certainly ‘The Knickerbocker’ has space to sell. 
Who said it hadn’t?” 

“Nobody. I’ve been having a hard time, it seems, in making 
you understand me and my purposes. Now, I wish to buy 
that space where you propose putting you’re ‘write up’ of 
‘The Feast of Belshazzar.’ ” 

“That space isn’t for sale, if you please.” 

“I thought you said it was.” 

“I didn’t say it. You go talk to Mr. Conkling.” 

“I’m not going to talk to Mr. Conkling—if you want to 
make five hundred dollars for your newspaper, here’s you’re 
chance; ten moments hence it will be everlastingly too late. 
What say you?” 

“Talk to Mr. Conkling.” 

“I have no intention whatsoever of taking this matter up 
with Mr. Conkling, but if you wish to earn five hundred or a 
thousand for your paper, all you have to do is to lose—lose, 
I say—your ‘write up.’ No other newspaper in New York City 
will have this bit of sensationalism in it.” 

“How do you know?” ; 

“I know.” 

“Have you arranged with all of them?” 

“I’m simply stating what I know to be a fact—it isn’t neces¬ 
sary for me to explain or say anything additional.” 

“Mr. Conkling has tried to publish a fair, unbiased, clean 
newspaper, and I think he has succeeded fairly well.” 


128 


THE LONGDENS 


“If I were going to pass judgment, I’d say that ‘The Knick¬ 
erbocker’ was a barnstorming, sensational, yellow newspaper 
if it publishes this ‘write up’ of ‘The Feast of Belshazzar’ 
when all the other newspapers of the city have agreed not to 
publish it.” 

“I’ll speak to Mr. Conkling relative to your charge of sensa- 
tionlism, and I’ll mention, too, your offer of a thousand dollars 
if the write up is ‘lost.’ ” 

“You say one word to Mr. Conkling regarding this conver¬ 
sation and you’re a dead man.” 

“Indeed!” 

“Yes, indeed. I’m a desperate man, and I mean exactly 
what I say, and I’m not going to be trifled with.” 

“You are bothering me, so allow me to bid you an affection¬ 
ate goodby.” 

As Robert turned to go, he reiterated: 

“Remember what I said to you relative to mentioning our 
conversation to Mr. Conkling. If you have any sense and 
know what is good for you, you’ll keep quiet.” 

Robert’s temper was foaming. He was angry through and 
through. His plan was about to miscarry and be frustrated 
by a pompous, little, egotistical upstart. He was determined. 
He was desperate. He turned viciously upon his heels and 
briskly walked to the rear of the room. The pressman had 
just entered. Robert accosted him. They conversed earnestly 
and confidentially for several moments. Soon the pressman 
queried in a low voice: 

“So you belong to the Printer’s Union?” 

“I do,” said Tadmore. 

“Where?” asked the pressman. 

“Waterloo, Ohio.” ) 

“Well, I’ll tell you, Tadmore, we printers have got to stand 
together or we’re lost.” 

“That’s just it, that’s just it. These capitalists will quietly 
wreck our unions, and put our leaders in jail, and reduce 
our wages one-half, if they get a half a chance.” 

“Are you in good standing?” asked the man. 

“Yes, but my card’s in my other clothes,” said Bob. 

“That’s all right—don’t trouble yourself. I know an honest 
fellow when I see him—I can tell by his eyes.” 

“I certainly thank you.” 

“I pronounce you true blue. I’m for you.” 


THOSE TROUBLESOME REPORTERS 


129 


“PH certainly do a like favor for yon sometime.” 

(C 1 used to be a boy myself, and I sowed a few. There's 
absolutely no use in punishing a boy for what he regrets.” 

“There, you hit the nail on the head squarely, squarely on 
the head, I say.” 

“It'll not go in, I tell you—it'll not go in, even though I 
lose my job.” 

“I certainly thank you a thousand times for your consider- 
tion.” 

“Depend upon me,” exclaimed the printer with emphasis. 

“Goodby and good luck,” answered Robert triumphantly. 

The pressman simply waved his hand as a token of his re¬ 
gard. Robert now was jubilant. He had convinced the press¬ 
man that he belonged to the Printer's Union which, with an 
ardent union man, goes farther than money. Robert hastened 
away. He wished to be gone when Mr. Conkling arrived. 
In truth Mr. Conkling would have been there before all of 
Robert's plans had been matured, had he not been late in 
arriving this morning. Robert chuckled audibly as he walked 
deliberately down the street. His headache was gone, his 
spirits were buoyant—he was feeling fine. He muttered to 
himself: 

“Who says that I'm not a strategist? Foch isn't in it. Who 
says that I can't finesse? Who wants to match wits with one, 
Sir Robert Tadmore?” 

The account of “The Feast of Belshazzar” did not appear 
in “The Knickerbocker” that evening, nor did it appear in any 
of the other metropolitan papers. Robert was hilarious and 
he jollified by drinking six cocktails at one sitting. It had 
been an expensive escapade, but why should he care? He 
had money and he had triumphed. 

However the night reporter of “The Knickerbocker” was 
watching matters. He noticed that his ‘write up' had been 
omitted, and he asked Mr. Conkling “Why ?” Mr. Conkling, of 
course, could not answer. Then the reporter recited his con¬ 
versation with Robert that morning. Mr. Conkling listened 
attentively. All the while he was very still and very thought¬ 
ful. He looked, all the while, straight ahead of him and down, 
but he said nothing. To him it was a painful rehearsal; how¬ 
ever, he wanted to know the facts. He understood, but he 
did not make any comments. When the recital was over, Mr. 
Conkling thanked the reporter and courteously dismissed him 



130 


THE LONGDENS 


with what purported to be a smile of gratitude, but it was, 
in truth, a smile of pain. He picked up a newspaper and pre¬ 
tended to be reading, however he was not reading, he was think¬ 
ing. 

Mr. Conkling was always diplomatic. He thoroughly realized 
that generally it is wisest, when strained relations have arisen, 
to say nothing; that often a person can do more indirectly 
to avert a catastrophe than he can do directly. Drastic measures 
usually cause friction in family affairs, and generally they do 
not secure results. As a rule, radical and high-handed methods 
in love affairs cause resentment, an unyielding determination, 
and a disregard of parental authority. So the father said 
nothing to the daughter regarding the young man’s escapade; 
but silently down in the secret recesses of his heart, he hence¬ 
forth detested Robert Tadmore most bitterly and most un¬ 
compromisingly. 


XVI 


Mrs. Longden 

Susan Bradstreet was still working at the job that Robert 
procured for her, but she was unhappy, and part of the 
time she was in tears. Her speckled trout had snapped the 
line and triumphantly sailed away. Robert had not acted 
as she expected. Heretofore, she had gone fishing only in the 
rural creeks where the fish are small and easy to catch; but she 
had much yet to learn about fishing de luxe—about fishing for 
trout in the city streams where the human tides ebb and flow. 
Here the fish are game and uncertain, resourceful and skilled in 
finesse, and you are not sure of your catch until the marriage 
vows have been spoken—not until death itself has claimed your 
fish. Then and then only are you actually sure that you had 
caught him or her. 

Susan had tried on various occasions to interest Dudley’s 
affections, but somehow they had been winter-killed, and they 
could not be revived by the sunshine of love or the showers 
of kindness. One day she became bolder and queried frankly: 

“Dudley, don’t you like me any more?” 

“Susan, Robert is your chocolate drop.” 

“Hot any more.” 

“Then it’s no fault of yours,” 

“But I like you better, Dudley.” 

“Since when?” 

“Oh, for a long time, Dudley.” 

“Hot when Robert’s around.” 

“He goes with all the girls, and I want a fellow who isn’t 
so generous or so accommodating with his affections.” 

“Susan, once we were sweethearts. I loved you. You coldly 
and cruelly turned your back upon me. My love was unre- 
quitted. I suffered, my feelings were wounded. I was over¬ 
whelmed with chagrin. You chose Robert. I can’t see wherein 
I’m under any obligations to you now.” 

“Dudley, have you never made a mistake? Have you never 
done anything that you regretted?” 

131 


132 


THE LONGDENS 


“Yes, I have many times; but should Robert call upon you 
this evening, I have every reason to believe that you would 
choose Barabas—pardon the illustration, I did not intend to 
be sacrilegious.” 

“No, you are mistaken, Dudley. I am a wiser woman than 
formerly.” 

“In other words you’ll make sure the next time that you’re 
going to get Robert before you quit me?” 

“No, not that, Dudley.” 

“I’m sorry, Susan, but my self-respect forbids. Hence¬ 
forth we can be no more than friends, so goodby and good 
luck.” 

Susan hastened to her apartment, bowed her head upon her 
desk and wept bitterly. The sun had gone down; the day was 
cold and dark and dreary. She was heart-broken. Her sky 
was overcast, and her future was a house of gloom. 

Dudley, too, was very sad. He battled between love and self- 
respect throughout the balance of the day. However, he said 
nothing to anyone. As usual, he stoically endured his heart¬ 
aches without a murmur, but he had made it a steadfast rule 
of his life never to allow the same person to snub him a 
second time; so he remained obdurate, although his heart was 
crying out for love and sympathy and companionship. 

The days ambled quickly past. Dudley and Anna gradually 
became warm friends, but “union” was always a dangerous 
subject—as deadly and as dangerous as nitro-glycerine—a sub¬ 
ject which each had wisely learned to avoid. A discussion of 
the weather, the styles, motoring, clothes, the late war, the 
theatre were always welcome subjects, but unions never. 

It was a sweltering evening in midsummer. Everybody was 
trying to cool off internally and externally. Dudley and Anna 
had journeyed to a nearby soda fountain. After they were 
seated, Dudley -queried pleasantly and courteously: 

“Anna, what shall we drink?” 

“A phosphate for me,” replied Anna briefly. 

“There isn’t any nourishment in a phosphate,” said Dudley. 

“It isn’t nourishment that I want—I want a cooler, I want 
a reducer, I want to be refreshed.” 

“Then give us two lemon phosphates,” commanded Dudley, 
looking up indifferently at the waiter who was standing at 
attention at his elbow. 

When the waiter had gone, Anna spoke complimentary: 


MRS. LONGDEN 


133 


“Dudley, you look as fresh as a morning-glory this evening.” 

“As fresh as a morning-glory this evening?” he inquired. 

“Then, you look as fresh as a four-o’clock this evening—how 
do you like that, Mr. Perspicity?” 

“That’s better, Anna, and I thank you for the compliment. 
You remind me, Anna, of a jelly roll all covered with sugar,” 
replied Dudley with an infectious smile. 

“Of course a boy would always illustrate with something 
to eat,” said Anna. 

“Why not, when I never did get enough jelly roll?” 

“I guess all of us illustrate and give as presents those 
things that appeal to us most.” 

“Yes, my little brother sent me a little tin horse and 
wagon last Christmas.” 

“Now, according to his way of thinking, that was the 
most appropriate and biggest thing in the world that he 
could buy for ten cents.” 

“Sure. Anna, let’s buy us a lunch at a delicatessen and go 
to the park and have a picnic all of our own.” 

“That certainly is a delightful suggestion and it gets my 
vote,” she replied. 

Accordingly, they bought lunch and meandered out to Cen¬ 
tral Park where myriads of people were fanning, sweating, 
complaining, promenading and resting. They joined this motley 
crowd, but they were so interested in each other that they 
did not complain of the heat or the weather. They were seated 
upon a settee laughing and cooing when Anna suddenly 
queried: 

“Dudley, why do you wear that pin?” 

“Oh, it’s a crazy notion of mine,” replied Dudley indifferently. 

“What does it mean? G. F.” 

“It’s an old wire pin which a young people’s society at 
Waterloo adopted.” 

“But what does it mean?” she insisted. 

“Nothing.” 

“Dudley, you know better,” answered Anna tartly, and anger 
flashed from her eyes. 

“Nothing of interest to you, Anna.” 

“Now, Dudley, if you love me you’ll tell me.” 

“It’s a little secret, Anna.” 

“That’s what I know; that’s the reason I want to know.” 

“You wouldn’t understand,” 


134 


THE LONGDENS 


“Pm too dense?” 

“No, not that; but, Anna, my reputation is at stake—Fm 
in honor bound to keep this little secret of this little society.” 

“You provoke me, Dudley. You don’t love me,” answered 
Anna caustically as she arrogantly tossed her head and turned 
her back upon Dudley. 

“Please don’t act that way, Anna. Please don’t insist upon a 
thing that means much to me and nothing to you.” 

“But it is a matter of interest to me, and I do insist upon 
it, Dudley Longden.” 

“Would you have me break a most solemn vow for the 
sake of your idle curiosity?” 

“I would if you love me. If you don’t love me, don’t 
answer.” 

“Is it not enough that I assure you that it is of no conse¬ 
quence to you?” 

“Dudley, don’t tell me if you don’t love me.” 

Dudley was now helplessly in the hands of the Philistine. 
Delilah was mistress of the situation. She seemed to have 
hypnotic power over him and he could not break the spell. 
He answered humbly, but guiltily: 

“ ‘G’ stands for ‘Germany,’ and ‘F’ stands for ‘First.’ ” 

“Oh, I see—thank you.” 

Dudley hung his head. He was now chagrined, provoked, 
angry—angry at himself, at Anna. The secret was out. He 
had been worked. He had deliberately done that which his 
mother had cautioned him not to do. The joy had suddenly 
gone out of his life. He was now helplessly in the hands 
of one who was, at best, a doubtful friend. The conversation 
was henceforth labored. Delilah had scored. She was silently 
jubilant. She had tangled the fish in her net. Yes, Sampson 
was helpless—as helpless as a kite in a storm. Anna was 
exultant. She now had a leverage whereby she could compel 
his love, or compel him to join the Printer’s Union. The 
sultry atmosphere had suddenly become chill. They did not 
tarry. In a very little while they went toward home, but the 
homeward journey was not unlike that of a funeral party. 
Their goodbys were brief and curt, if not frigid. 

On the following morning at about ten o’clock, a lady 
whose hair was streaked with grey entered the vestibule of 
“The Knickerbocker” building. She was modest if not diffi¬ 
dent. She had a noble mien; a clear, charming voice; large, 


MRS. LONGDEN 


135 


lustrous eyes; and gentle, kindly ways. She was a perfect ex¬ 
ample of long-suffering motherhood. Her dress was very 
plain and bespoke an honest effort to be respectable with the 
expenditure of but little money. In a way it was sad. This 
mother had worked and toiled and struggled all her days. She 
had traveled the stony, dusty, unlevel road of parsimony with¬ 
out a murmur and without a sigh; so naturally her counte¬ 
nance had been scarred with many wrinkles, but her eyes 
were luminous with goodness, and her countenance was lighted 
with kindness and hopefulness. Although she had reared a 
family of five, which is a task that is more trying than raising a 
family of robins near a family of kittens, and more arduous 
than weeding onion seed sprouts, still she was not jaded. 
A freshness that was fed by the springs of good cheer suf¬ 
fused her countenance. She had kept sweet when sailing upon 
stormy seas. 

But now she had, for a little while, quit the inconsequential, 
circumscribed world in which she had toiled and striven, and 
had entered a great metropolis where dress is the deciding 
factor in the measure of man or a woman. Her husband had 
demanded a strict accounting for every egg and every quarter 
pound of butter that had been marketed, and he had always 
been exacting to the last penny. But someway this lady had 
accumulated a few pennies here and a few pennies there until 
she had saved enough to take her to her first bom. She had 
now come to surprise him—him who had not only been absent 
from home two long, lonesome years, but had been driven 
from home by an avaricious, unreasonable father. 

The only reason now that Mr. Longden had not objected 
to his wife’s going, was the paramount fact that he had not 
been asked to defray the expenses. He had gone upon the 
assumption that Dudley was furnishing the money, which was 
the one and only thing that concerned him supremely. Dudley 
had heretofore sent his mother various sums for her own per¬ 
sonal use, some of which she had steadfastly saved with the 
one idea in mind of some day visiting her beloved son. 

Mrs. Longden had attracted considerable attention as she 
had walked down the street. Her shoes were cumbersome. 
Her bonnet was antiquated. Her dress swept the sidewalk— 
it was painfully plain and of the cheapest calico. In fact, 
all of her clothes had been out of style at least four years, 
but they were neat and trim and clean. Any boy would have 


136 


THE LONGDENS 


been proud of such a mother. True nobility is not a matter of 
dress; it is enthroned in the soul, and tempers the thoughts and 
actions; it gives a touch of gentility to the voice; it asserts 
itself in loftiness of purpose and charity for all mankind. 
True nobility is rarely found in the whirl of so-called select 
society where snobbishness and insincerity flourish; it is found 
in the humble cottage, along the byways, away from the eddy¬ 
ing crowds, away from the haunts of men. 

The mother was accompanied by her two youngest daughters 
who were eight and ten respectively. As soon as she entered 
“The Knickerbocker” offices, she was seized with a feeling of 
embarrassment. However, she advanced with queenly dignity 
to the first desk and questioned the gentleman in charge in a 
voice as charming and as musical as the song of the nightin¬ 
gale: 

“Can you tell me, please, whether Dudley Longden works 
here ?” 

“Yes, ma’am, he does—just step to the workroom back of the 
offices there.” 

Dudley was now in charge of the job-printing department. 
He had heard and he knew his mother’s voice as soon as she 
spoke. He hastened to greet and embrace her. Big tears 
came into his eyes and trickled down his cheeks as he ap¬ 
proached. He was deeply moved. The surprise was complete. 
He tried to be brave, but when he spoke there was a sob in 
his voice: 

“Why, mother! when and how did you come?” 

“We just arrived, Dudley.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me? I would have met you at the 
station.” 

“We wanted to surprise you.” 

“You have certainly done it.” 

“You’re looking so well, Dudley.” 

“Yes, I’m quite well, mother—and you?” 

“I’m always well, Dudley; I haven’t time to get sick.” 

“Mother, I want you to meet Mr. Conkling, my employer.” 

Dudley forthwith started rapidly and proudly toward Mr. 
Conkling’s office, followed at a distance by his delightful 
mother. When the mother caught up with the son, Dudley 
addressed his employer nervously: 

“Mr. Conkling, this is my mother.” 


MRS. LONGDEN 


137 


“Mrs. Longden, I’m certainly glad to see you. I suppose 
you’re as proud of Dudley as lie is of you.” 

“Oh, of course,” replied Mrs. Longden enthusiastically but 
unobtrusively. 

Grace was in the private room adjoining her father’s 
public office, but the door was open. She could hear and see all 
that transpired. She was her father’s private secretary when 
she was not in college. Her attitude now was snobbish, con¬ 
descending and arrogant. She did not consider Dudley Long¬ 
den in her class. He was scarcely more than an animal that 
does menial work. He was her father’s flunkey. Dudley was 
never stylishly attired, never even well dressed. Grace was 
sure that she never could endure him. Her one ambition was 
to marry an up-to-date young man with plenty of aggressive¬ 
ness and “oodles” of vivacity. So she naturally regarded 
Dudley and his mother as inconsequential. Mrs. Longden 
continued: 

“But, Mr. Conkling, do you have to punish him often?” 

“Every day,” chuckled the editor. 

“No wonder he looks so well.” 

“Yes, spankings always make boys healthy and good-look¬ 
ing,” replied the editor jocularly. 

“We’ve been awfully lonesome at home since Dudley went 
away,” replied the mother sadly. 

“I presume; still he has a much better opportunity here, 
Mrs. Longden.” 

“Oh, for his own sake, I would not have him come back 
home.” 

“We sometimes scold and rant and—” 

“Certainly, that’s what I want you to do when he doesn’t 
do just right; however, Dudley says you’ve treated him like a 
father.” 

“Well, Mrs. Longden, I can trust Dudley—I’ve tried him 
out thoroughly. He’s honorable and I can depend upon him, 
and that kind of a boy stands high in my estimation.” 

“If he ever gets lazy and shiftless, Mr. Conkling, you 
punish him; for he wasn’t raised that way.” 

“He has worried me at times, Mrs. Longden: he has been 
too studious, too much inclined to overwork and overdo. I’ve 
been fearful lest he might break his health.” 

Dudley knew that Mr. Conkling was a very busy man, 
and that every moment meant much to him, so he interposed: 


138 


THE LONGDENS 


“Mother, well see Mr. Conkling again—he's always busy at 
this time of day." 

“Dudley, you’ll probably want to show your mother Greater 
New York, so you’re at liberty to take a two weeks’ vacation 
on full pay." 

“I certainly thank you, Mr. Conkling, but I don’t want a 
two weeks’ vacation—I couldn’t enjoy that much of a vacation; 
I’d get restless and peevish, but I’d certainly appreciate it if 
I might have the rest of the day off." 

“Dudley takes as much interest in this printing estab¬ 
lishment as I do. We’re very much alike; neither of us 
thinks that the establishment would run two weeks without us." 

“I hope he isn’t an egotist.” 

“Not at all, but he’s interested and wants to see the boss 
succeed—not a bad quality, Mrs. Longden." 

“No, that isn’t a bad quality, Mr. Conkling. While I think 
of it, I wish to thank you many times for your interest in 
Dudley.” 

“Mrs. Longden, every trustworthy boy is entitled to a 
chance, and I’m very glad indeed that I was able to give Dud¬ 
ley a chance. I believe that both of us have profited by it. 

“There’s where Dudley’s father was at fault." 

“I should judge so, else Dudley never would have left his 
mother. A boy never leaves his mother unless there’s some 
mighty good reason." 

“Well, I’ll be here in the morning, Mr. Conkling—goodby!’’ 
interposed Dudley as he, followed by his mother and two 
sisters, started away. 

“Goodby, Dudley," answered Mr. Conkling considerately. 

Mrs. Longden had come to stay a month, so Dudley at once 
concluded that it would be cheaper and more satisfactory to 
rent a small apartment where they could do light housekeeping 
and be by themselves. This he did and, after the baggage was 
delivered and assorted, many were the questions that Dudley 
asked regarding Collie, the old sugar camp, the horses, the 
apple trees, the wild flowers, the old swimmin’ hole, the 
neglected cemetery, and the slippery-elm tree. 


XVII 


Vacation Days 

Robert was spending his vacation in New York. The reason 
was plain; he wished to be near Grace Conkling with whom he 
was madly in love. Robert had no occupation, so he could 
spend his summer vacation as well in one place as another. 
He was idling his life away, dissipating his energies, squander¬ 
ing his patrimony. He had no high ambitions, no lofty ideals, 
no settled purpose in life. His one all-consuming passion was 
pleasure—gratification. Sometimes it was wholesome, some¬ 
times unwholesome. Like a skiff on the sea, he was drifting. 
Like wreckage, he was floating with the tide. 

Grace, too, was captivated. Any girl is captivated when her 
beau ideal has a train of admirers. Under such circumstances 
the most commonplace man becomes the most desirable of 
men. 

Robert’s toilet was his stock in trade. It cost him immeas¬ 
urably, but he was sure that the investment paid. He shaved, 
took a cold bath, a brisk rub and a two-mile walk each morn¬ 
ing. Each evening before going out he took a run, a hot 
bath, and a glass or two of high-grade champagne. He spent 
some of his time at the gym; but he passed the greater portion 
of his waking existence with Grace, playing golf, boating, 
picnicing, autoing, or at the theatre. 

Mr. Conkling had not yet seen young Tadmore. He had no 
desire to see him. The “Feast of Belshazzar” had told him 
enough. If you show an expert botanist a leaf, he can tell 
you the name of the tree—Mr. Conkling was the botanist; 
“The Feast of Belshazzar” was the leaf; the botanist knew 
the name of the tree, at least he knew enough about the tree 
to form some very pertinent conclusions. Naturally, Mr. 
Conkling was emphatically opposed to Robert and he had de¬ 
cided if possible to keep him out of his family circle; how¬ 
ever, the situation was delicate and it might become acute. 
It certainly was going to require the most subtle sort of 
diplomacy, for his daughter was decided, very decided, in her 


140 


THE LONGDENS 


ways. Grace was not especially self-opinionated; but she 
naturally was a strong, decisive personality, all of which she 
probably inherited from her father. An emphatic command 
from the father that Mr. Tadmore should not call again, might 
cause Grace to defend her lover stoutly and vigorously, and 
might cause her to assert her independence. Such a course 
would undeniably be unwise and undiplomatic; so the father 
decided to work out a more sagacious plan. 

Grace was a delightful young lady, almost royal in the 
charm of her presence and the graciousness of her dignity. 
She was a social queen, keen-witted, subtle, independent and 
resourceful. However, she was intensely feminine, and was 
swayed by all those little attentions and courtesies which usu¬ 
ally captivate the feminine heart. Besides, Robert Tadmore 
knew the art of winning a girl better than he knew trigonom¬ 
etry, and he did not hesitate to resort to any and every 
expedient. 

While Grace was acting as private secretary to her father, 
she was compelled to observe the same hours as the other em¬ 
ployees ; but when she wished a day off—which was frequently 
—a promenade in the yard, arm in arm, with her father; a re¬ 
arrangement of his necktie; the pinning of a buttonhole 
bouquet to the lapel of his coat; or a magnetic, imploring 
smile, face to face, always secured the desired result. All 
these points of attack usually caused the father to sur¬ 
render unconditionally. This continued indulgence was prob¬ 
ably the cause of that independence which manifested itself 
semi-occasionally in the daughter’s speech and actions. 

Thus Grace and Robert whiled the summer away, motoring 
and playing golf. They had visited every point of interest 
and eaten at every hotel of merit within a radius of two hun¬ 
dred miles. Day after day they leisurely boated and dreamily 
drifted up and down the picturesque Hudson in the vicinity 
of the tragedy of Rip Van Winkle. Each and every evening 
they played a round of golf which was followed by dinner at 
the Country Club. After dinner they played cards or prom¬ 
enaded in the parks. Robert must have said to Grace—at 
least he must have thought it: “Wheresoever thou goest, I will 
go—thy God shall be my God, thy people shall be my 
people,” for they were together incessantly. 

Now summer was almost gone. Grace was beginning to 
tire of Robert. He had pushed his suit too vigorously for his 


VACATION DAYS 


141 


own good. He did not have the versatility, the resourceful¬ 
ness, the knowledge, the necessary amount of travel to enter¬ 
tain a hustling, wide-awake American girl every day in the 
week for three long months. If it takes a Cleopatra to capti¬ 
vate a Roman General, it certainly takes the versatility of a 
Theodore Roosevelt to entertain a breezy, shrewd, intellectual, 
sun-tanned, New York girl. Robert had been weighed in the 
balance and found wanting. Grace had daily taken soundings 
in his brain, as they do in the caverns of the ocean; but her 
readings had disclosed nothing—nothing worth while, nothing 
but a disengaging shallowness, an uninviting emptiness, a 
capacious void. She had discovered nothing but an intense 
yearning for pleasure, of which she was now very weary. 
She had seen the dusty, barren, arid peaks of his intelligence, 
and they resembled the craters of extinct volcanoes—empty 
and desolate. 

It was evening. Robert and Grace were taking dinner, as 
usual, at the Country Club. Grace seemed to be distressed, 
discontented. She interposed abruptly: 

“Robert, Fm sick of squab, sherbets and wines—I long for 
the simple life, for a rural retreat. Fm weary of people— 
I want to be alone, and live on toast and tea for a fortnight.” 

“Grace, what do you mean? What have I done that you 
should talk this way? What have I not done, I say, that 
you should wish me away?” 

Of course, after Robert had entertained her so regally all 
summer, Grace could not tell him that she was disappointed 
in him, that she had read his soul and discovered that the creek 
of his mentality had gone dry, discovered that his ideas were 
feeble, insipid, meaningless. So Grace answered more hope¬ 
fully when she saw that Robert was construing her remarks 
personally: 

“I do not wish you away, Robert.” 

“I could not tell, of course, whom you meant or what you 
meant.” 

“Did you ever feel disgusted? Did you ever have nausea? 
Perhaps Fm not well—perhaps you’ve entertained too well.” 

“Rather, I should think that I had failed.” 

“Have you ever been lonesome when in a crowd ? Have you 
ever longed to be with a plain, honest-to-goodness person like 
Mrs. Longden?” 

“Mrs. Longden?” 


142 


THE LONGDENS 


“Yes, Mrs. Longden. She is in New York now, you know, 
and she is such an honest, cheerful, noble, dignified old lady 
that I like her. If I were in trouble, I would not go to the 
Four Hundred for help—I’d go to such people as Mrs. 
Longden.” 

“I’d almost forgotten her, but I’ve always regarded her as a 
very, very ordinary woman.” 

“Nevertheless, she is as true as the mountains, as kindly as 
a ray of sunshine in winter, and as lovable as a tulip in 
spring—and what else is worth while?” 

“So she’s your ideal?” 

“To be brief, I’m tired of the foam and palaver of fashion¬ 
able society.” 

“I don’t know just what you’re driving at, Grace.” 

“The simple life, Robert.” 

“The simple life?” 

“Where friends are true, and food is plain, and work is 
honorable.” 

“Have you been disappointed? Are you soured on life? 
Has your confidence been misplaced?” 

“No,” answered Grace who did not have the courage to tell 
Robert frankly that she was disappointed in him. 

“But you have not enjoyed the summer?” 

“Robert, it has been charming, delightful; but the wasted 
moments! the lost opportunities!” 

“Grace, these are life to me. Pleasure and gratification are 
joys unspeakable to my soul.” 

“Robert, your ideals have poisoned barbs.” 

“You are talking in riddles this evening, Grace—I do not 
understand.” 

“This is what I mean, Robert; summer is over, golden 
moments have been ruthlessly wasted, college days are near 
and I am glad.” 

“You wish to get back to your studies?” 

“I do. I never could live an idle life. It disintegrates the 
soul and demoralizes the moral fibre.” 

“I too believe that I feel better when I’m on the football 
squad, where my bill-of-fare is beef and beans and cheese; but 
I also believe that play and pleasure and gratification prolong 
life.” 

“Understand me, Robert; I say that we are to be commended 
when we make pleasure the dessert course of life, but that we 


VACATION DAYS 


143 


are to be pitied when we make it the meat and the salad 
courses, too.” 

“Longevity certainly demands cheerfulness, and nothing pro¬ 
motes cheerfulness so much as pleasure.” 

“True; however, too much of it enervates while too little 
makes life a dreary waste; so take your choice. Robert, I’m 
convinced that I’ve had too much—I’m pampered. I need 
more work, simpler food, and a few unpretentious friends.” 

“Then I shall order tea and toast for you, or ham and eggs?” 

“Toast and tea, if you please,” responded Grace vigorously. 

“Are you joking?” 

“No, that’s a bona fide order.” 

“Why not order a dish of blue sky and a bowl of sun¬ 
beams?” 

“I’ll take toast and tea this time, after which we shall 
play two more rounds of golf—I need lots of fresh air, lots 
of exercise to drive these depressing sensations away.” 

“You shall most assuredly have your wish,” said Robert. 

“Papa said they were going to raise the annual membership 
fee in this Country Club to five thousand dollars.” 

“Good! That’ll be just fine. I’m in favor. I vote ‘yea’ 
It’ll make it so much more exclusive.” 

“I’m opposed; I vote ‘no.’ Exclusive people are snobbish, 
and snobbish people are small peaches, and green.” 

“Not necessarily.” 

“My observation informs me that it is necessarily true.” 

“Then the jury disagrees,” laughed Robert boisterously. 

“Only ten more days until we’ll be back to grand old Bel¬ 
mont.” 

“I wish I could say honestly: ‘Grand old Belmont.’ ” 

“What then would you say?” asked Grace. 

“I’d say, ‘Detestable, old Belmont,’ ” said Robert bitterly. 

“How awful! Do you so soon forget the many jolly times 
that we had there?” 

“Have you not learned that every rose has its thorns?” 
smiled Robert incredulously. 

“Sure! That is life—college life, real life, everyday life.’ 

“Not so, Grace; this summer right here in New York has 
been a rose without any thorns. That saying is untrue—I 
quoted it as a joke.” 

“Maybe the thorns are yet to come,” she said. 

“I hope not,” replied Robert. 


144 


THE LONGDENS 


“I thought you enjoyed college life? I thought you liked 
to play football.” 

“I do, but I hate study.” 

“Robert, it’s a sin to waste the golden moments—life is so 
short, so sweet, so precious.” 

“I never did like drudgery.” 

“My dear boy, every professor, every senator, every man of 
consequence has either endured or he is enduring days—yes, 
weeks and months and years—of drudgery and hard work.” 

“I believe you are mistaken, Grace. So many people go 
sailing so serenely through life that Fm sure there is not a 
cloud in their sky.” 

“If you’d take a peep behind the scenes, you’d change your 
mind. But, I admit, study is a great pleasure to me; I en¬ 
joy it.” 

“Here we are. Ham and eggs, and toast and tea—I’ll 
divide with you; you ought to have something to eat besides 
moonshine,” he urged. 

“No, I thank you—toast and tea sounds good to me.” 


xvm 


Stranded 

The awful stillness that brooded over the Longden farm 
was not unlike that that hovers over the desert at nightfall, 
since Mrs. Longden and her two youngest daughters had been 
sojourning in New York. The two remaining children, who 
were respectively twelve and fifteen, were now alone with 
their father; and naturally they longed to see their mother, 
longed for someone to caress them and sympathize with them. 
The children were precocious beyond their years, probably an 
inheritance from their mother. They could scarcely endure 
their exacting, critical, grouchy, inconsiderate father. His very 
presence gave them a chill. He compelled them to tend the 
garden, to milk the cows, to prepare his meals, to make the 
butter, to pull the weeds; in fact, they had nothing to do but 
work. 

Their mother had now been gone thirty days. The awful 
lonesomenes 3 of the place haunted the children. They decided 
that they could endure it no longer, and they stealthily began 
planning a trip to New York. First, they wished to see 
their mother, and second, they wished to see what laid beyond 
the encircling hills. Sometime since, they had commenced 
accumulating money by abstracting twenty-five cents each 
time they marketed the produce; but they became impatient 
and anxious to go, and they pronounced this plan too slow. 
It would take too long. They could not wait. They must find 
some speedier method of accumulating money. 

One bright September morning Mr. Longden put the chil¬ 
dren to work in the fields, and started to a sale some five 
miles distant. The children decided that the opportune time 
had arrived. So, as soon as their father was gone, they 
commenced corralling the hens, and noisy was the cackling and 
many were the squawks that arose from the Longden barnyard. 
They hastily caught sixty of the nicest, fattest fowls, hitched 
“Old Dobbins” to the spring wagon and soon they were jog¬ 
ging along the road toward Waterloo. “Old Dobbins” made 

145 


146 


THE LONGDENS 


the trip in record time. He certainly exceeded the speed limit. 
Never before had he gone so fast, because the Longden children 
used a green beech “persuader” freely and continually and 
effectively. As soon as they reached the village of Waterloo, 
they nervously sold the fowls and pocketed the money. They 
then hesitated for a second, but for a second only—their con¬ 
sciences had rebelled, had pronounced their course wrong and 
dishonorable. They had never done anything like this before; 
but they quickly decided that it was the lesser of the two 
evils: the father’s injustice, and the stealing of the fowls. 
So they quickly tied up the lines, faced “Old Dobbins” toward 
home, hit him a sharp cut with the whip, and off he started at 
breakneck speed. They then quickly bought their tickets 
for New York, boarded the first train which, fortunately, came 
in about ten moments; and soon they were speeding away 
through a country which they had hitherto not known; but it 
was a country which seemed to them to be laden with wonders 
unbelievable. 


Robert and Grace were back at Belmont. The greetings of 
old friends, the echo of college halls, the lectures of dignified 
professors, the humdrum routine of study, the charm of 
sorority life; all these appealed to Grace Conkling very 
forcibly. Robert Tadmore enjoyed the athletic and social 
phases of university life, but the monotonous routine of study 
sounded a strident, discordant note in his nature and actually 
made his college days painful to him. 

Robert and Grace promenaded incessantly in spite of the 
ridicule and taunts which are always hurled at a pair of 
college lovers. They were out driving one fine evening soon 
after college resumed. Robert had excused his autocratic 
chauffeur for the evening, and was doing the driving himself. 
He was a fast, if not reckless driver. For some unaccountable 
reason the lights would not burn, and darkness was hastily 
drawing its mantel over the earth. Robert was speeding, try¬ 
ing to make Belmont before it was pitch dark. He was sure 
that he could avoid the police even though it was dark, by 
creeping down a side street that ran near the garage; however 
he was driving too fast for the late eventide. He came to a 
turn in the road before he was aware of it, and he went into 


STRANDED 


147 


the side ditch, through the barbed wire fence, and over into 
a cornfield. Grace was frightened. She was as white as a 
ghost, but fortunately no one was hurt. Robert enjoyed the 
thrill of hairbreadth escapes. Erequently he flirted with 
danger and laughed. The glass in the windshield was shat¬ 
tered and broken into a thousand pieces which were thrown 
into the hair, ears and mouths of the occupants. The only 
thing that prevented their being sawed in two was the 
windshield frame which, fortunately, was strong enough to 
break the barbed wires. So luck was with them and they were 
spared. 

The car was badly crippled. It was a wreck. It would not 
start. Two of the wheels were cupped, both axles were bent, 
and the engine had paralysis. However Robert was not wor¬ 
ried; he chuckled because he enjoyed it. He went to a nearby 
farmhouse and telephoned his garage to come after the pieces 
and to come prepared to transport two passengers. He was 
some four miles out. 

Grace’s countenance remained palid, ghastly. She was very 
sober and very thoughtful, but she had nothing to say. 
She did not enjoy such escapades. She had never claimed to 
be a mountain climber or an adventuress, and she had no 
ambitions along these lines. That which Robert enjoyed, 
Grace had no relish for. He liked the thrill of excitement and 
enjoyed the unexpected. He enjoyed telling about it after¬ 
ward and liked to be the center of attraction. 

A week later the garage man rendered a bill for repairing 
the crippled car. It amounted to twelve hundred and thirty- 
six dollars. Money matters never worried Robert. He 
laughed, and he wrote the check for the amount while he 
laughed. He acted as though the pleasure was all his. Money 
to him was very much like the Mississippi that placidly flows 
on forever—it had never gone dry. However some three days 
later the garage man returned the check to Robert. On the 
back of it was the notation, “not paid for the want of funds.” 
Robert was stunned, speechless. He stammered and scratched 
his head. He was embarrassed; the river had gone dry. He 
had not dreamed that this day would ever come. It was a 
rude awakening. A bankrupt spendthrift is always a pitiable 
sight. Failure is always sad, but it is unspeakably sad when a 
young man, who has never toiled, is compelled to toil for his 
daily bread. A half a million dollars had evaporated in three 


148 


THE LONGDENS 


years. Robert was penniless and helpless. He had forgotten 
how to work; he hated work. Oh, how galling the work-collar 
is to some people! Robert contemplated suicide. He did not 
think that he could endure the humiliation. He must choose 
between suicide and the disgrace of poverty, for he surely 
regarded poverty a disgrace. In truth, suicide is a disgrace 
and poverty is honorable, but Robert did not so regard them. 
If he chose suicide, he would not be here to endure the pain 
and the humiliation; if he chose poverty, he would not only 
have to give up the fast life that he enjoyed so much, but 
his downfall would be a general topic of conversation in and 
about Belmont. So the sky was dark and the clouds were 
ominous. The road was rough and night was coming on. 
Pleasure and dissipation had enervated his life, and now he 
was a financial wreck. 

Finally a rift came in the clouds. He had friends—sure he 
had friends—why not use them? Do not your friends have a 
cash value? Was he not a famous athlete? Did his reputa¬ 
tion not have a cash value? Most assuredly! First, he decided 
to cash in on his friends as an asset. They would lend him 
enough to tide him over the present crisis—perhaps good luck 
was awaiting him just around the corner. That’s what he 
would do; he would borrow enough money of his fraternity 
brothers to pay the garage man. Optimism had triumphed. 
It generally triumphs during the many crises that punctuate 
the life of every spendthrift who never takes life seriously. 

So Robert borrowed the money of his fraternity brothers 
and made the garage man’s check good. But what was he 
going to do? His expenses were enormous. He must have 
additional aid forthwith. He had not a cent in his pocket. 
How evasive money is, when you have none! How it melts, 
when you have but little! It’s like the iceman’s cake of ice 
on a hot day in August—a twenty-five pound piece only weighs 
fifteen. Robert was sure that the sensations of being a pauper 
were disconcerting to say the least. He must have relief; so, 
he called three of his more intimate fraters into a conference 
saying: 

“Fellows, I certainly appreciate your assistance thus far, 
and I wish to thank you; but if I continue in college I’ll be 
compelled to have more money.” 

“More money?” questioned one of his friends abruptly. 


STRANDED 


149 


“Yes, it takes lots of money—it takes a damned sight of 
money, I say, when you have none.” 

“We just let you have six hundred dollars,” replied another 
of the fraternity brothers, and that’s as much as some students 
spend in a whole year.” 

“True, but you would not permit such a fellow to be a 
member of your fraternity; in fact, the fellow who is not 
in a position to expend five thousand dollars a year would be 
blackballed, if he applied for admission to our fraternity, 
twenty-two times—you know we have just twenty-two mem¬ 
bers,” replied Robert earnestly. 

“It is quite true, I admit, that social renown is one of the 
prerequisites of our fraternity,” answered the brother meekly. 

“Besides, Jonesy, the six hundred dollars was to take care 
of a check which I had already issued—my honor and the 
reputation of our fraternity were at stake.” 

“But, Robert, you’re going to be compelled to abridge ex¬ 
penditures.” 

“I’ll quit college before I’ll abridge expenditures.” 

“That would be unfortunate for you as well as our fra¬ 
ternity.” 

“Nevertheless, a leader of college society cannot suddenly 
abridge expenditures without exciting wonder and provoking 
slighting remarks,” replied Robert forcibly. 

“But, Robert, you must remember that all of us fellows 
are on an allowance, and that our monthly allowance is spent, 
sometimes, three months before we get it. Why don’t you put 
your creditors off a month?” 

“A month?” 

“Why, certainly; I owe some bills that are a year and a 
half old, and I received a letter from a creditor just this 
morning, stating that he was sending my bill to father. You 
have to learn to finesse.” 

“Why should you care if he does send it to father? Let 
father pay it.” 

“Maybe you don’t know father.” 

“Does he lecture you?” 

“No, not exactly; however he does not hesitate to take the 
amount out of my next pay cheek, and he deducts interest for 
prepayment.” 

“Nothing wrong about that.” 


THE LONGDENS 


150 

<£ I suppose you have ridden in an elevator that goes down 
so fast that it completely takes your breath.” 

“Yes.” 

“That’s the effect that one of father’s letters has upon you. 
For instance, here’s one I got yesterday: 

“William: 

Draft enclosed for six hundred and fifty dollars, pay¬ 
able to Lawrence Bros., clothiers. They say that it has 
been owing eighteen months. If I receive two more 
letters of this character during your junior year, you can 
pack your trunk and find yourself a job, 

Father.” 


“Slightly disconcerting? But he’s lucid,” interposed Robert 
with a smile. 

“Oh, I never have any doubt as to father’s meaning.” 

“His letters put a fellow to thinking, eh?” 

“Father never bluffs, always says exactly what he means, 
calls a bulldog a bulldog, and he never changes his mind.” 

“Pardon me, fellows, but we’re off the subject. I know that 
you have troubles, but mine are acute. You boys must be 
reimbursed for the six hundred that you advanced me,” as¬ 
serted Robert positively. 

“Are you really a bankrupt, Robert?” queried one of the 
fraters pointedly. 

“I’m compelled to admit the truth of it, fellows, although I 
regret to think of the humiliation of it.” 

“Is there no hope that you may some day recoup your 
losses?” 

“There’s absolutely no hope—I admit it with chagrin.” 

“It’s certainly an unfortunate situation.” 

“But, understand me, I’m making you fellows my confidants, 
knowing that you will keep this an untold secret. If, how¬ 
ever, it should in one way or another become generally known, 
I would quit college sometime between the first setting and 
the first rising sun,” said Robert. 

“Are my athletic achievements worth anything? Have they 
a cash value ?” he continued. 

“You possibly might secure a position with one of the minor 
league teams, but that would necessitate your leaving col- 


STRANDED 


151 


“You don’t get my meaning. The question that arises in my 
mind is this: would the students of Belmont contribute to a 
purse to be presented to me? Of course, you fellows would 
be compelled to scatter the propaganda and work out the 
plans.” 

“But how would you conceal your financial shipwreck? 
Everybody would know about it, should a public campaign 
for money be started.” 

“Understand me. You would do all this secretly and un¬ 
known to me. You would do it for the good of Belmont 
athletics, you know. I would be merely an innocent recipient, 
unaware of what was happening. The purse would simply 
be a token of appreciation for what I had done for Belmont, 
athletically.” 

“Nevertheless, it would be embarrassing for you, when it 
came to receiving it, for the presentation would need to be 
made publicly.” 

“Leave that to me. I’m sagacious enough, I think, to 
handle it.” 

“Of course in our campaign we could pretend that we were 
doubtful that you would receive the purse, inasmuch as you 
had plenty of money; but at the same time we could insist 
that the college, at least, owed it to you to make the offer.”. 

“Now you have the idea. I wouldn’t have Grace Conkling 
know of my financial condition for six purses.” 

“There’s no need of her knowing it; in fact, there’s no 
possibility of anyone’s knowing it, outside of us four, if none 
of us ‘cheep.’ ” 

Each of the four agreed to the plan as outlined, and it was 
launched. Robert’s value to Belmont University was regarded 
as of paramount importance for their purposes, and it was 
accordingly accentuated most; while his immeasurable service 
to the spirit of athletics was emphasized with no less vigor 
and vehemence. The probability of his unwillingness to 
accept gold or silver, inasmuch as he was lavishly blessed in 
this respect, was next dwelt upon; nevertheless, it was forcibly 
argued that the obligation was binding and that the tender 
ought to be made—it was a duty which no conscientious student 
could sidestep. Those who circulated the subscription lists 

queried with emphasis: e 

“Where would Belmont be today athletically were it not tor 

Bob Tadmore?” 


152 


THE LONGDENS 


Of course the question was pertinent, and there was only 
one answer. Even the poor student who was making his way 
through college by acting as stoker, or waiter, or office boy, 
could not, if he had one spark of college spirit or a modicum 
of college pride, refuse to contribute. Thus the game was 
played early and late; practically everybody contributed— 
there was no alternative. The student who didn’t was frowned 
upon and denominated unfriendly to his alma mater. The 
movement, like a log rolling downhill, gained momentum as it 
went. Even the college professors subscribed liberally. En¬ 
thusiasm ran high. A bag of gold totaling near five thousand 
dollars was collected. A day was fixed for the presentation. 
The college band was out. Class colors and college colors 
fluttered everywhere. Vigorous class yells followed one 
another in quick succession. Naturally Robert was there. 
He was unbelievably surprised, like Julius Caesar who thrice 
haltingly thrust the crown aside, but sill fingered it covetously; 
so Robert Tadmore in a few well-chosen words shrewdly ex¬ 
plained, as he thrust the moneybag aside, but still fingered 
the string that tied it: 

“Ladies, gentlemen, and fellow students. This is certainly a 
big surprise to me. My first and overwhelming impulse is to 
refuse this unmistakable evidence of your kindness and good 
will; but upon maturer thought my nobler self rebels against 
such a course, when I consider the spirit in which this tender is 
made. It is not the monetary value of a gift that speaks the 
loudest—it is the spirit that actuates the giver, the motive 
that suggested the gift, that stirs the recipient’s heartstrings 
most profoundly. I do not wish to be labeled ‘unkind’; I 
do not wish to be accused of snobbishness; I do not wish to be 
misunderstood; I do not wish to be called a man without grati¬ 
tude and without appreciation; so I have decided that it is wise 
and proper that I accept this gift as a remembrance of the 
happiest day of m'y life. Allow me to thank you, allow me to 
thank you a thousand times for this self-evident token of your 
regard; and with your continued encouragement and the help 
of my teammates, we’ll certainly do our best to win the day 
on the field of sports henceforth. It is, at least, my hope and 
my fondest wish that ‘Old Gold’ will always flutter tri¬ 
umphantly from the top of the staff, and that athletics will 
continue, as heretofore, to flourish at grand old Belmont.” 

A prolonged outburst of applause followed this speech of 


STRANDED 


153 


acceptance. Robert scooped up the moneybag while “Iong, 
hungry Cassius” and “et tu Brute” looked on in astonishment. 
Yes, “long, hungry Cassius” was there, but he was practically 
alone, and he was afraid to interfere; and friendly Brutus, too, 
was there, but the counter current of public opinion was so 
strong that he, also, was afraid. In fact, the cards had 
been stacked against them while they slept, and they were 
helpless. 

Robert, of course, was grateful. He was in much the same 
dilemma as a drowning man; any sort of a temporary life- 
saver would be thankfully received, but the best was none too 
good; and naturally he decided to accept the best that was 
proffered. He and his three accomplices hurriedly left the hall 
by a side door and eagerly sought Robert’s room where the 
sheckles were covetously counted. There were exactly five 
thousand dollars in gold; but how long would five thousand 
last a society man like Robert Tadmore? Undoubtedly it 
would melt as fast as a snowman at the equator. But Robert 
now began crossing bridges before he got to them—something 
he had not hitherto done. While the stars were auspicious, 
he decided to be bold—decided to ask his professors to grant 
him his full quota of credits January first, thereby giving him 
not only the privilege of quitting college at Christmas, but the 
privilege of graduating with honors with his class in June. 
He gave as his reason for such a shocking request, “pressing 
business matters in New York which demanded his immediate 
personal attention.” First, he went to those professors who 
were friendly, who were members of his fraternity; and to 
the more conservative ones later. His success was boundless. 
He, seemingly, was sailing over sweet-spirited waters. His 
inestimable worth to Belmont, owing to his having made 
it famous as a center of triumphant and clean sports, and the 
value of his personality as an inspiration to the rest of the 
student body appealed to the faculty profoundly. Robert was 
successful. His scheme worked, public opinion was with him. 
Even the hard-shelled professors did not hesitate. They en¬ 
thusiastically supported and finally openly endorsed such a 
course as not only proper, but just and equitable. 

So in recognition of his athletic achievements, it was gener¬ 
ally understood by the faculty of Belmont that Mr. Tadmore 
was to be at liberty after Christmas with the privilege of 
graduating with his class in June. Like Napoleon, Robert 


154 


THE LONGDENS 


seemingly was born under a lucky star. However, Napoleon’s 
star finally set, but it remained to be seen bow soon, if ever, 
Robert Tadmore’s star would set. 


XIX 


Woman Has Her Way 

A few days later at eventide Grace and Robert were out 
for a stroll. It was dusk. Ordinarily Robert was a happy-go- 
lucky, indifferent sort of a fellow, little mindful of the happen¬ 
ings of yesterday or the promises of the morrow; but, some¬ 
way, the past few days had been garbed in somber colors. 
The sunshine had lost its warmth, and life had lost its zest. 

Grace had noticed his moroseness, but she attributed it to 
some temporary physical or mental depression and did not 
dream that financially he was embarrassed. However, while 
they were out promenading, he suddenly became more talka¬ 
tive, more jubilant, more optimistic. Grace, like all lovers, 
was a little blind; and, like all lovers, she too was over-kind. 
She little understood Robert’s ulterior motives, she little 
knew his far-reaching purposes. He spoke in a confidential 
voice: 

“Grace, I’m weary of college. After the football season 
is over, I’m going to secure a position, even though the salary 
be not very gratifying. I so much enjoy the arena of busi¬ 
ness—its hustle, its struggles for supremacy, the clash of wits, 
the cold operation of the law of the ‘survival of the fittest.’ ” 

“What kind of a position, Robert?” 

“I haven’t decided as yet, Grace—what would you suggest?” 

“I was just wondering how you would like to be a newspaper 
man.” 

The suggestion, of course, was intensely interesting to 
Robert who had expected Grace to make a query of this sort. 
He answered untruthfully: 

“I hadn’t thought of that.” 

“It’s a nice, clean, dignified profession.” 

“Yes, I imagine that it is and, upon first thought, I believe 
I favor the suggestion.” 

“Have you had any experience?” asked the girl. 

“None whatsoever,” he replied. 

“I presume, before you embarked for yourself, you’d rather 
155 


156 


THE LONGDEKS 


have a position with someone who has already mastered the 
details of the profession.” 

“Yes, that, too, probably would be wise.” 

“What department would you prefer?” 

“Sports, of course,” said Robert. 

“Shall I ask father?” asked Grace. 

“It would certainly be kind of you.” 

“When could you arrange to start?” 

“January first.” 

“January first? What! quit Belmont when your graduation 
day is in sight?” 

Grace was probably a little selfish in her query, for she 
did not wish to be away from Robert. He questioned: 

“Why not? The professors have given me sufficient credits 
to graduate me.” 

“How nice! I’ll write father this very evening.” 

The stroll was soon over. Grace hastened to her room where 
she wrote her father as follows: 

“Dear Papa: 

My friend, Robert Tadmore, wishes to learn the news¬ 
paper business. He prefers, naturally, the position of 
‘Sport Editor.’ All Belmont raves over Mr. Tadmore’s 
athletic achievements. His professors, in recognition of 
his ability, have gladly advanced him enough credits to 
graduate him in June; so he naturally would be free to 
accept a position January first. Dear Papa, he’s cer¬ 
tainly an unusual fellow, and he would be a most valuable 
addition to your editorial staff. But, Papa dear, he has 
lots of money, so naturally money is not his primary 
purpose; but I would not want to insult him by offering 
him less than ten thousand dollars a year. Do arrange a 
place for Robert, dear Papa, and oblige. 

Your loving daughter, Grace.” 

Upon receipt of this letter Mr. Conkling was worried. He 
had no place for “Belshazzar” in his printshop, much less did 
he want him for a son-in-law. He muttered to himself as he 
was reading Grace’s letter: 

“God forbid. Deliver my innocent, unsuspecting daughter 
from this modem ‘Belshazzar.’ ” 

The idea was repellent, revolting to the father, but he 


WOMAN HAS HER WAY 


157 


answered his daughter as courteously and as graciously as he 
always had: 

“Dear Grace: 

I’m certainly sorry that I am unable to make room for 
Mr. Tadmore at the present time. From what you say, 
he certainly would make ‘The Knickerbocker’ a very valu¬ 
able man. Perhaps at some future time some arrange¬ 
ment could be effected; but now, you know, I’m under an 
ironclad contract with each of my employees, and it 
would cost me thousands of dollars to annul their con¬ 
tracts. I’m indeed sorry, for Mr. Tadmore would un¬ 
deniably give our editorial staff dignity and eclat. 

Goodby, sweetheart, with lots of love from your 

Daddy.” 

Grace was as furious as a wounded mountain lion when she 
received this letter. However anger soon gave way to tears. 
Her every wish had hitherto been granted by her indulgent 
father, whose family pride had always been paramount; so 
naturally, as is always the case, whether the person he a 
spoiled child, an invalid, or a pampered parent, Grace con¬ 
sidered her father cruel and relentless. However, it seemed 
that she was checkmated; but after the tears were gone, her 
disappointment again expressed itself in anger. She remained 
in her room the rest of the day, sullen and unhappy. Near 
midnight she wrote her father as follows: 

“Charles Conkling: 

I don’t think it was very nice of you to ignore your 
daughter’s fondest wish in the high-handed manner that 
you did. I’m almost sick. I didn’t know that you were 
so cold-blooded. I should have been more considerate of 
your feelings had you made a special request of me. I 
simply haven’t the nerve to tell Mr. Tadmore that you 
have ‘turned him down/ You could arrange a place for 
him if you wanted to, and I know it. Nothing ever 
thwarts your purposes when you take a notion to do a 
thing. Now write me and tell me that matters have been 
arranged. 

Grace.” 


158 


THE LONGDENS 


Mr. Conkling received the above letter in due time; and, after 
giving it careful consideration, he decided that some situa¬ 
tions can be handled better and more effectively, if you are in 
close touch with them than when they are entirely out of your 
jurisdiction. So he wrote his daughter as follows: 

“Dear Grace: 

I believe you are right: Mr. Tadmore is too valuable a 
man to ‘turn down/ even though it costs your father 
fifty thousand dollars to annul the contracts which stand 
in the way of employing him. Besides I’d expend another 
fifty thousand dollars to please my amiable little daughter 
than whom there is not one more delightful. So you 
employ Mr. Tadmore to be editor of ‘The Sport Depart¬ 
ment’ of ‘The Knickerbocker’ at a salary of ten thousand 
dollars the year, payable in weekly installments, begin¬ 
ning January first. With oceans of love, from 

Your Daddy.” 


The Rocky Mountains were never more beautiful, and the 
air was never more refreshing; however, the pink- had left 
Julia Nansen’s cheeks. She was now as fragile as a barley 
stalk. Her form had wasted and her countenance was pallid 
and ghastly. Her health seemed to be gradually giving away 
under the continuous strain of her husband’s neglect. Sor¬ 
row and longing were eating her life away. She was sitting 
upon the same boulder that had been hallowed by her hus¬ 
band’s parting words of love and devotion and adoration. 
However, it had been reconsecrated now far more than human 
words could express by the devotion of this fair young woman. 
It was her nest, her lookout, her altar. 

She was continually thinking of other days and other skies. 
Her heart was heavy, but she was sure that God was good 
and that Robert was true. She suddenly heard footsteps. 
She turned and saw a young mountaineer approaching. He 
was young and fair and stalwart and she had known him for 
many days. He was strong and athletic and inured to the 
hardships of the mountains. He accosted her tenderly: 

“Julia, I have come to ask you to be my wife.” 

“Reuben, I cannot. Robert Tadmore is my husband and 
I am his wife.” 


WOMAN HAS HER WAY 


159 


“He lias been gone these three years.” 

“That makes no difference—to Robert I shall always be 
true.” 

“He has not been true to you. He’ll never come back to 
see you again.” 

“Now Reuben, don’t talk that way, else we will not be 
friends. Robert will come back when he can. I hope nothing 
has happened to him. If you know anything for sure, Reuben, 
you’ll tell me if you are my friend,” replied Julia anxiously, 
as tears trickled down her pale, marble-like cheeks. 

“Julia, he has married another woman.” 

“Reuben, you can go away. I do not believe you. You 
cause me pain and you make my heart bleed. You are 
trying to bring evil upon me and my family and my hap¬ 
piness.” 

“Let me stay, Julia—I love you.” 

“Reuben, I will be your friend, if you will go away; but 
I shall always be true to Robert Tadmore—goodby.” 

Reuben turned and moved slowly away, leaving Julia with 
her sorrow and her sadness. Julia’s son was playing at her 
knee. The mountain stream chattered indifferently to the 
innocent boy who was saying: 

“Papa! Papa! Where’s my papa, mamma? Why don’t 
he turn back?” 

“He will come back, dear Rodney. God is good, and papa is 
good. I found a stalk of goldenrod blooming in the valley 
today. I’m going to the mountains every morning now at 
sunrise to look for hickery nuts. Papa said he’d be back 
before the ‘hicker nuts’ fall.” 

“Me’ll help mamma find hicker nuts.” 

“All right, sweetheart; maybe then dear papa’ll come. He’s 
been gone so long—but I’ve prayed so much that I’m sure that 
God wouldn’t let anything happen to him. I’m so sure that 
he’ll come back to us soon, sweetheart.” 


XX 


Hiram Longden 

“Whoa!” shouted a dust-covered gentleman with a ragged 
beard and long unkempt hair. He was jaded and in the garb 
of a farmer. He was driving a bony, grey horse hitched to 
an old rickety spring wagon, and had stopped in front of 
“The Knickerbocker” offices. The gentleman was perhaps 
fifty, and his carriage was that of a man of importance. His 
self-esteem was self-evident. It was undeniably boundless 
and seemed to be seasoned with an insinuating egotism. He 
gazed in wonder at the pretentious stone building which housed 
“The Knickerbocker,” after which he remained seated while 
he viewed the many skyscrapers that confronted him, far and 
near. 

The grey horse was unaccustomed to so much noise and 
excitement, and he looked about wildly as if about to attempt 
the impossible: namely, run away. After the weary traveler 
had completed his survey, he deliberately and slowly alighted, 
as though suffering in a greater or less degree with rheumatism. 
He yawned, stretched and straightened up until he was as 
straight as an arrow, and seemed to have the dignity of the 
Prince of Zulu. He wore no collar; his overalls were patched 
and faded and thickly covered with dust; his cold, steel-blue 
eyes betrayed no affection for man or beast, and his plow 
shoes were crude and cumbersome and innocent of blacking. 

The doors of “The Knickerbocker” offices were thrown wide 
open. The stranger boldly entered. Egotists are always bold 
and usually ignorant. Our newcomer bravely accosted a 
gentleman who was just passing out the door: 

“I want to see the manager.” 

The gentleman addressed was one of the assistant editors. 
He quickly looked the gentleman over and answered: 

“Mr. Conkling’s office is the last on your right.” 

The bewhiskered stranger was a gentleman unafraid; neither 
was he abashed by the elegant furnishings and the mahogany 
furniture and the well-groomed individuals upon his right and 

160 


HIRAM LONGDEN 


161 


upon his left, all of whom were watching him intently. He 
quickly reached Mr. Conkling’s oiliice, and at once began talk¬ 
ing in a loud, imperious voice: 

“Sir, I want to speak to Dudley—Dudley Longden—where 
is the boy?” 

“Dudley’s at lunch,” answered Mr. Conkling politely. 

“When is he coinin’ back?” 

“In a half hour, perhaps.” 

“Dm goin’ to see him sooner.” 

“Are you his father?” 

“Why do you ask? What has he done? I don’t pay none 
of his bills.” 

“Don’t you worry a minute about that; Dudley pays his own 
bills.” 

“Yes, I’m his father—any disgrace connected with our 
family name?” 

“Not that I know of.” 

“Let me say right here before we go no furder that I’m a 
German and I’m proud of it,” spoke Mr. Longden boldly and 
in a loud voice. 

“It’s unwise, Mr. Longden, for you to talk that way in 
New York.” 

“What! Hain’t my fatherland the greatest country in the 
world ? Hain’t the Kaiser the biggest man in the world ?” 

“No. I say no, ‘No’; but confidentially, Mr. Longden, and 
as a friend of Dudley’s I’d advise you to be careful. The 
feeling here is very bitter against German sympathizers. In 
fact, the police are eagerly watching for German sympathizers, 
and if they hear a word that’s unpatriotic, they’ll pick up the 
offender and lodge him in jail.” 

“I hain’t afeered of no Yankee I ever seed.” 

“Neither is a lobster, or an old goose, or a jackass,” spoke 
Mr. Conkling heatedly, for he was one hundred per cent 
American. 

Mr. Longden looked at the editor with questioning eyes, not 
knowing how to construe Mr. Conkling’s illusions, not know¬ 
ing whether or not he had been insulted, but finally he 
queried: 

“Did you call me a jackass and an old goose?” 

“No sir.” 

“What did you say then?” 

“I said, ‘neither was an old goose or a jackass’ afraid of a 




162 THE LONGDENS 

Yankee. Now is there anything further that I can do for 
you?” 

“Tell me where I kin find my sonnie, Dudley.” 

“If you’ll keep still about your ‘dear old Shermany/ you 
may come into my office here and wait until Dudley returns, 
which will not be long—he’s always precisely on time,” replied 
Mr. Longden deferentially, on Dudley’s account. 

“What sort of help is Dudley?” 

“There’s none better. Dudley’s a remarkable boy. You 
should be proud of him.” 

“I raised him that there way—I deserve the credit,” 
answered Mr. Longden proudly as he raised his head a little 
higher. 

“I supposed so. I could tell by Dudley’s trustworthiness 
that he had a noble father,” answered Mr. Conkling sar¬ 
castically. 

“Yes, I’m his fodder, and I trained him myself, and made a 
gentleman out of him,” replied the father. 

“I can always tell when a father gives his boy a chance; I 
can tell when he pays his son well for his services, and fur¬ 
nishes him plenty of good books to read.” 

Mr. Conkling’s sarcasm was now having a telling effect. 
Mr. Longden winced visibly and turned pale. He hesitated, 
stammered, and answered in a much lower voice: 

“Yes, I hain’t denyin’ it; I deserve lots of credit.” 

“Again, you were wise when you sent him to New York, that 
he might have a chance which he could get nowhere else—a 
chance to see and learn and rise and be somebody.” 

“Yes, I seed there was no chance fer the boy on my clay 
farm, so I thought I’d try growin’ him in New York soil.” 

“You certainly showed a splendid spirit by sending him here. 
Most men are selfish and want to keep a noble son like Dudley 
at home, want to pay him a double wage in order that they 
may keep him at home.” 

Mr. Longden’s voice was getting weaker and weaker as he 
answered Mr. Conkling’s sarcastic sallies; but he had gone so 
far in taking all the credit to himself that he could not now 
change his course. He answered meekly: 

“Yes, I wanted the boy to go.” 

“Dudley is certainly a prince. I have implicit confidence in 
him; I can trust him anywhere, any time.” 

“How much does he git?” 


HIRAM LOHGDEH 


163 


“Thirty-five dollars a week.” 

“Thirty-five dollars a week!” gasped the old man. 

“Yes, and I’m going to give him a raise.” 

“He hain’t wuth it—there bain’t nobody what’s wnth 
six dollars a day.” 

“I’m paying some fellows eight dollars a day who do less 
than Dudley.” 

“Yes and us-uns, us poor farmers pay the bill. Ho wonder 
we’re poor and a-gittin’ poorer all the time.” 

“How’s that?” 

“Why, don’t you know the honest farmer eventually pays 
fer everything?” 

“Do you take my paper?” 

“I hain’t able to afford it.” 

“Then, tell me, just how much of Dudley’s salary do you 
pay?” 

“The merchants pay you, and we pay the merchants, don’t 
you see?” 

“How much merchandise have you bought in Hew York 
during the past year?” 

“I hain’t asked Dudley how much he’s bought.” 

“I’m talking to you—you’ve got nothing to do with Dudley’s 
expenditures.” 

“I hain’t bought nothin’, but lots of farmers has.” 

“I’m talking to you, now.” 

At this juncture Dudley entered. Mr. Conkling called him 
as he passed his office door. Dudley’s dress was mediocre, but 
he had in his carriage and actions that something that the city 
man absorbs from an urban atmosphere; an indifference to 
novel surroundings, a confidence in himself, a stolidness and 
seeming unconcern when confronted by the bigness of things. 
It is an attitude of self-respect, but not pertness; of confidence, 
but not egotism. So, too, Dudley had absorbed these char¬ 
acteristics from the atmosphere of Greater Hew York, and his 
carriage and indifference were the same as that, that character¬ 
izes all other city men. 

When Dudley first beheld his father, his eyes flashed like 
balls of fire, wonder suffused his countenance and a feeling 
of dread bordering upon hate seized his soul. However, Dud¬ 
ley unconsciously came nearer and at once he saw that he 
was not mistaken, it was his father. He ejaculated in a kindly 


164 


THE LONGDENS 


voice, although it required all the will-power at his com¬ 
mand: 

“Why, father, when did you come?” 

The father at once assumed his old-time imperiousness. His 
greetings were frozen before they were spoken. He gave his 
son’s interrogation no consideration. His steel-blue eyes were 
as cold as the northern seas. No paternal fires were burning 
there. Dudley continued: 

“Father, will you go over to the flat and wash and have 
some lunch?” 

“I want to see yer modder, of course—what do you suppose 
I’m here fer?” 

“Very well, if Mr. Conkling will excuse me a few moments, 

I’ll show you the way.” . „ ... 

“Certainly, Dudley—go right ahead,” replied Mr. Conkling 

courteously. , 9 T 

“You ask Mr. Conkling’s permission, when Im here/ I 
never heered of sich impertinence. Hain’t you my son? Hain t 
it one of the Commandments fer a boy to honor his father?” 

Dudley did not answer. He was disgusted, provoked, 
chagrined. He arose and walked quickly away and out the 
door that his father might have no more opportunities to dis¬ 
grace his family and himself in Mr. Conkling’s presence. 
When Dudley was outside “The Knickerbocker” offices, he 

answered: . 

“Father, you are very inconsiderate; Mr. Conkling is my 
employer, and it was only a matter of ordinary courtesy for 
me to ask his permission to go with you. He employs me, and 
he pays me, and certain hours belong wholly to him.” 

The two were now approaching the jaded horse and the 
rickety spring wagon in an unfriendly frame of mind. Mr. 
Conkling was watching developments from one of the windows. 
He was sure that a storm was brewing. He wondered just 
how much of the old man’s impudence Dudley would tolerate, 
for he was sure that Dudley was still smarting from indig¬ 
nities visited upon him by his father back home. Just as 
Dudley was about to mount upon the seat of the spring wagon 
the father answered irately: 

“You stop lecturin’ me, sir—I hain’t no flunkey; I’m yer 
fodder and I demand respect. I’m yer master, and I’m goin’ 
to have obedience—do you understand?” 

“Father, if you persist in your old-time, fault-finding, 


HIRAM LONGDEN 


165 


badgering ways, Fm going back to work. Fm now making 
my own way, and I have been my own boss since you drove me 
from home. I ask no more favors from you; but I’ll show 
you every courtesy and every consideration, if you’ll act as 
though you were half civilized.” 

“We’ll jist see about that. Yes, we’ll jist see who’s boss. 
No striplin’ of a son is a goin’ to bluff me.” 

Dudley turned quickly and started toward the entrance to 
“The Knickerbocker” offices. A look of dismay suffused the 
father’s countenance. He now had grave doubts as to whether 
his old-time, domineering ways were going to work any longer. 
He was not so sure now that he was the boss. He called after 
Dudley in an exasperated, but gentler voice: 

“Dudley! Here! You idiot! air you a toyin' to embarrass 
me?” 

Mr. Conkling smiled from his window and watched more 
eagerly, for he knew that friction had already arisen. Dudley 
now turned and regarded his father with a look of contempt. 
The father inquired: 

“Where kin I feed Pet?” 

Dudley slowly, but defiantly approached the vehicle and 
climbed upon the seat followed by his pestiferous father. He 
briefly gave direction as to how to drive, and when to turn; 
but no other words were spoken until after the horse was 
cared for. Then the father commanded in a milder voice: 

“Now, take me to your mudder.” 

“I expect we’d better take a street car—it’s fifteen blocks.” 

“Well,” answered the father submissively, “I hain’t got 
much money.” 

“I'll pay the carfare,” answered Dudley in a more kindly 
voice. 

So the two were soon climbing the stairs that led to Dudley’s 
flat. Mrs. Longden saw her husband coming, and her heart in¬ 
voluntarily fluttered. She dreaded the meeting. She dreaded 
the ordeal. As soon as the children saw the “Old Bear,” as 
the children denominated him, they scattered like a family 
of prairie chickens when confronted by the hunter. Mr. Long¬ 
den boldly entered. His wife saluted him in a kindly voice: 

“Why, Hiram!” 

She then hesitated. She was wondering what was going to 
happen next. She was always in doubt. The husband an¬ 
swered his wife’s greeting with: 


166 THE LONGDENS 

“I thought you was comm’ back in a month—air you still 
my wife?” 

“Of course, I am, Hiram; but Dudley needed me more 
than you.” 

“I supposed you’d deserted, and I come over to have an 
understandin’.” 

“Hiram, you certainly know that I owe the children some 
consideration. They wanted to stay.” 

“Course they’d want to stay—they kin gad all the time 
here.” 

“Each has a job and is earning eight dollars a week. 
None of them is lazy—they want to and are anxious to work. 
They will never again ask you for a cent of money.” 

This was the strongest argument that the wife could pro¬ 
duce and she knew it. The husband answered crabbedly: 

“It wouldn’t do ’em no good if they did.” 

“I think they know that.” 

“You’re a raisin’ a fine bouquet of wild flowers, I must 
say.” 

“They have so many more opportunities here, Hiram.” 

“Opportunities, the devil! Where air the two brats what 
run away?” 

“They may be downtown.” 

“They sold all the good hens and left the bad ones and 
spent the money. What do you think of that fer high¬ 
handed, wild-western methods in civilized Ohio?” 

“How much spending money did you give them?” 

“How much? Do you think I’m goin’ to give them there 
hyenas money? Do you think I’m goin’ to die in the poor- 
house? Where air the brats?” 

The mother made no answer. The children, who were hiding 
under the bed, heard the father’s threatening words, and were 
cringing and undergoing the keenest torture. They were sure 
that the day and hour of their undoing was at hand. The 
mother purposely changed the subject by inquiring: 

“Have you had your dinner, Hiram?” 

“Of course I hain’t,—but I don’t want none. Git ready 
and we’ll start fer home in an hour.” 

“That would be impossible, Hiram.” 

“Impossible, the devil! You git ready—where air the kids, 
I say?” 

“I can’t possibly get ready under four or five days, Hiram,” 


HIRAM LONGDEN 


167 


“Pll be here in jist one hour with Pet and the spring 
wagon, and, if you’re a goin’ to continue to be my wife, you 
be ready.” 

Dudley had said nothing thus far, but now he interposed: 

“Now, father, mother is going to stay with me until March.” 

“Until March? How do you know? Who air you?” 

“Anyway, mother’s not going back to Waterloo until March. 
She needs the rest, and the children need the refining influences 
of the city. Six months in New York will be an education 
to them.” 

“Education, the devil!” 

“Hiram! How you do talk! Now, stop that! Have you 
backslidden? I never thought you’d talk that way, Hiram. 
Church members ought to be more careful and more religious,” 
interposed his wife graciously. 

“You-uns would drive a feller to suicide. I’ve got to watch 
myself all the time. I wouldn’t be surprised at nothin’.” 

“Father, you’d just as well quiet your nerves and eat your 
lunch, for mother is going to stay with me through the winter. 
This has been decided upon and there’s no use in discussing 
it. All of us think that mother’s general health demands this 
rest.” 

“It’s been decided upon, eh? Decided in my absence, eh? 
So a husband has no rights, eh? It seems that I’m a small 
potater nowadays, eh?” 

“Why, father, you astonish me: it would simply be impos¬ 
sible for mother to endure the hardships of a trip home in a 
spring wagon.” 

“I guess I know more than you New York pewees know 
about sich things. I guess I have rights.” 

“Certainly, father, you have rights; but mother and the 
rest of us have rights, too. However, you have no right to con¬ 
tinually bluff and abuse and badger mother and the rest of 
us.” 

“I kin git a divorce.” 

“ An y fool can do that,” answered Dudley irately. 

“Hiram, I don’t want to hear any more of that divorce stuff 
from you. I say, that’s enough of that kind of talk,” spoke 
the wife emphatically. 

“But I mean it,” insisted the husband doggedly. 

“Then, Hiram, you do just as you please about getting a 


168 


THE LONGKDENS 


divorce, and I’ll be content,” replied the wife decisively, but in 
a kindly voice. 

Mr. Longden now fully realized for the first time in his life 
that his family had declared its dependence. Quiet reigned for 
some five minutes. The husband was vexed and worried, but 
he was thinking. He was angry, but he was being dis¬ 
ciplined. He was especially angry at Dudley. It was he—he 
was sure—that had scattered this propaganda of independence, 
so the father now “about faced” and trained his guns upon 
Dudley: 

“Now sir, you took them there overalls of mine.” 

“You mean the pair that I wore away from home? The 
ones that you had discarded ? The ones that you gave me after 
you were through with them?” 

“I never give them to you; besides they were good overalls.” 

“What do you want? What are you driving at?” 

“Either the overalls or the money to buy another pair.” 

“But they were ragged and patched and faded and ready for 
the ragbag—you certainly don’t want a new pair in the place 
of them.” 

“That ha.in’t a makin’ no difference—they were as good to 
me as new ones.” 

“ An d you a trustee of the church?” 

“Yes, sir. Did you think you could bunco a feller simply 
because he’s a trustee?” 

“How much do you want for them?” 

“Two dollars.” 

“What are new ones worth?” 

“Two dollars.” 

“Here’s the money. I’ll be a man—you can be a pinching 
bug if you want to.” 

“Now, I’ll take that there watch of mine that you have.” 

“I thought you gave me that watch for going with the 
threshing machine one year.” 

“Not to keep. No, no; not on yer life. I let you have it to 
use. Yes, I jist loaned it to you durin’ threshin’ time.” 

“How much is the watch worth?” 

“Fifty dollars.” 

“I can buy five watches that are better than it for fifty 
dollars.” 

“I tell you that watch is worth fifty dollars and I want the 
money.” 


HIRAM LONGDEN 


169 


“If you weren’t my father and an 'amen’ church member of 
Waterloo, I’d call you a liar. Here’s the money for the watch, 
but remember that church members are supposed to be honor¬ 
able in church and out of church.” 

“That’s ’zactly what I’m doin’: tryin’ to be honorable with 
myself and my bank account.” 

“A thief stole the watch or you’d certainly get the watch 
back instead of the money.” 

“Now yer board after you was sixteen! All the childrens 
will have to pay board if they stay at my home after they’re 
sixteen.” 

“Board? Isn’t a farm hand entitled to his board? You 
never gave me a penny for my work, and now you want 
to charge me board. The idea! You’re a crook.” 

“Now, don’t spring that on me—you wasn’t wuth yer board.” 

“It isn’t right. It’s wrong and I’ll never pay it, I tell you.” 

“I’ll call the police.” 

“You’re an avaricious old Shylock. Call the police and see 
if I care.” 

The mother foresaw that there was now going to be trouble. 
She knew that her husband was obstinate, and she knew that 
Dudley was determined, because he had decided that he was 
right. So Mrs. Longden intervened: 

“If you have the money, Dudley, pay him.” 

“Yes, you’d better pay me,” commanded the father im¬ 
periously, “if you want to keep out of jail, because I’ll sure put 
you there if you don’t pay.” 

“In all my life I never have found as unreasonable and as 
‘crooked’ a man.” 

“I won’t fool a minute. You bet I’ll have you run in. I 
mean business, I tell you. This here tryin’ to beat a board bill 
is a mighty ticklish performance.” 

“How much do you want, Mr. Shylock?” 

“Five dollars a week for a year and seven months.” 

“For mother’s sake I’m going to give you a check for this 
amount, but I’ll fight for seven years before I’ll ever give 
you another cent—do you understand, Shylock? Do you get 
me?” # - 1 

As Dudley spoke, his eyes flashed like dagger points. He 
was incensed. He was intensely angry. Every atom of his 
being was swollen with indignation. Thus the altercation con¬ 
tinued. Many heated discussions, tinctured with sarcasm and 


170 


THE LONGDENS 


bitterness, followed; but Dudley would give his father no 
further consideration in any of the many matters that arose. 
The injustice of his father’s demands staggered him. He 
could not believe that any father would make such demands, 
except his father. Naturally this made him bitter and in¬ 
considerate. 

Finally lunch was over. The father abruptly arose and 
quitted the flat without so much as bidding his wife or Dudley 
“goodby.” He went directly to the livery stable, got his horse 
and spring wagon and started. He stopped in front of “The 
Knickerbocker” building, alighted, entered, officiously walked 
up to Mr. Conkling’s office window and addressed him in a loud 
voice: 

“Mr. Conkling, I’m here to tell you, ‘goodby.’ ” 

“Going so soon, Mr. Longden?” 

“Yes, I must be goin’—my stock needs me.” 

“How long did it take you to drive through?” 

“Three long, dusty weeks,” spoke Mr. Longden reminis¬ 
cently. 

“Isn’t it too hard a trip to make with a horse and wagon?” 

“The trip hain’t as hard fer a feller to bear as an ungrateful 
family.” 

“Then your family did not receive you cordially?” 

“No.” 

“And Dudley?” 

“He defied me. He’s an ungrateful son, Mr. Conkling.” 

“Maybe you’re in the wrong.” 

“I hain’t never wrong.” 

“It must be a delightful feeling to know absolutely that 
you’re always right—at times I have my doubts.” 

“My wife refused to go back home with me. I don’t know, 
but it looks like I was a-goin’ to potter along by myself from 
now on—yes, it sorter looks like I was a widerer.” 

“Maybe the children will have a better chance here, Mr. 
Longden.” 

“To git in jail, yes.” 

“I fear you’re a little pessimistic—you ought to be more 
hopeful.” 

“I hain’t got nothin’ to be hopeful about.” 

“How much did you owe Dudley?” 

“Owe Dudley? What’s the matter with you? He owed me.” 

“Why Dudley said you’d never paid him a cent for what 


HIRAM LONGDEN 


171 


he did on the farm, and I supposed that you’d driven over to 
settle.” 

“Heh, eh; nothin’ of that sort. I come after what he was 
owin’ me.” 

“And he paid you?” 

“Yer mighty right he paid me, but I perty near had to call 
the police.” 

“What did he owe you for?” 

“Why, he run away with my overalls and my watch, and 
he forgot to pay his board bill.” 

“Board bill?” 

“Yes, I charge board after they’re sixteen.” 

“How much board did you charge him?” 

“Five dollars a week. Hain’t that fair enough?” 

“It all depends upon how much you paid him for his 
work.” 

“I didn’t pay him nothin’ fer his work. He weren’t wuth 
nothin’. I remember six er seven days that he never worked a 
stitch, and course I’m not a goin’ to pay that sort of a hand 
nothin’. Besides I didn’t charge Dudley nothin’ fer his 
raisin’, and I guess he’s satisfied.” 

“Mr. Longden, I fear you’re an austere, ungrateful father. 
If you want your family to love you, you’ll have to change your 
ways. You’re too greedy, too pasping, too grouchy.” 

“So you air a takin’ sides agin me?” 

“No, I’m not ‘agin’ you, but as I grow older, I regret more 
and more that I ever spoke an unkind word to my family, and 
I never have spoken very many. They have always got 
practically everything that they wanted; but still, I say, I 
regret, as the shadows lengthen, that I wasn’t more indulgent, 
more kind, more pleasant, more cheery.” 

“Yes, and some of these nights yer family ’ll be caught 
a robbin’ a graveyard.” 

“Thank goodness! they haven’t been so characterized so far. 
Now, Mr. Longden, hear me: either you or your family is 
wrong. It is possible that it is you. So you ponder the sug¬ 
gestion that I’m going to make, and try it, and see if the seed 
doesn’t produce sunflowers.” 

“I don’t want to raise no sunflowers. I hate sunflowers and 
I won’t grow no sunflowers, I tell you.” 

“Now listen! the seed that I want you to sow will produce 
flowers of happiness.” 


172 


THE LONGDENS 


“Some more of yer blue sky stuff, I ’spect.” 

“This blue sky doesn’t cost you anything, so listen. You go 
home and buy your amiable wife the nicest bouquet of 
flowers that you can find within forty miles of Waterloo; and 
then—” 

“What do you think I am? A gold mine er a fool? 

send it to her. Then you send each of the children ten 
dollars’ worth of chocolates, and write them a letter telling 
them how much you love them, how much you miss them, how 
lonesome you are without them, how you’d like to see them, 
how desolate life is without them, how—” 

“I hain’t a goin’ to do it, I tell you—not unless I go crazy 
on the way back home. There hain’t no wonder that there 
hain’t no honest people no more—air you a socialist?” 

“No sir; but if you’ll do as I tell you, every one of your 
children will meet you at the gate every evening with open 
arms and a smile that is worth more than the price of a farm. 
They’ll even run down the road to meet you and to greet you, 
and to cheer you, and make you young again. They’ll love 
you and do things for you, and make your life a song and 
your declining years a lullaby.” 

“I’ll never do it, I say. It’s tommyrot, it’s tommyrot I say,” 
answered Mr. Longden as he arose in a huff, buttoned his 
waistcoat tightly about him, abruptly quitted Mr. Conkling’s 
private office, approached his jaded, grey horse with bitter¬ 
ness in his heart and hatred in his head, resentfully kicked the 
dust of Greater New York off his shoes, defiantly climbed upon 
his wagon, hit the grey nag a sharp slap with the lines, and 
he was off—off on his long journey to the hills of Waterloo. 


XXI 


The Printer’s Union 

October was almost gone. It was night and Dudley was 
operating a linotype machine. Mr. Bridgeport, the walking 
delegate of “The Printer’s Union,” who was slowly walking 
along the street in front of “The Knickerbocker” building, sud¬ 
denly stopped and listened. He was sure that he heard the 
familiar rattle of a linotype machine in operation. He 
listened a second time. He was not mistaken. He at once 
presumed that it was the operator who had been “doing half 
of his work after supper.” He decided to go in and visit a 
while with him. He went to the rear door, and was about to 
rattle it, when he suddenly saw Dudley Longden operating 
one of the machines most skillfully. He did not enter. He 
drew back and hastily retreated. He forthwith reported his 
discovery to the Printer’s Union which was then in session. 
The membership was highly incensed. Much bitterness was 
displayed, and many fiery harangues were made. Dudley had 
long been suspected! now he had been caught. The Printer’s 
Union had hitherto assumed an unfriendly attitude toward 
him since he had steadfastly refused to join them; but now it 
was openly antagonistic. 

Dissatisfaction and unrest prevailed to an alarming extent 
throughout the entire labor world. It had dictated its own 
terms, had been its own boss, and had enjoyed unprecedented 
prosperity, for more than three years. Its members were very 
much like spoiled children. They had clamored repeatedly 
for higher wages and fewer hours, but no sooner were these 
granted than they demanded still higher wages and fewer 
hours. Thus a large part of the labor world had become not 
only unreasonable, but dissatisfied, and it lapsed into a state 
of ferment. It was intoxicated. It was like a boy who has 
eaten too many persimmons—a boy who wants something and 
doesn’t know what. The Printer’s Union, because of minor 
grievances, had threatened repeatedly to strike during the 
autumn months; now a strike seemed inevitable. 

173 


174 


THE LONGDENS 


The following morning Anna accosted Dudley, as soon as 
she reached “The Knickerbocker” offices: 

“I understand that you’re a linotype operator.” 

“Who told you?” 

“The man that saw you.” 

“I was merely amusing myself.” 

“Anyway, the union is going to call a strike Saturday night, 
if you have not joined by that time.” 

“That wouldn’t hurt me—it would hurt Mr. Conkling only.” 

“He can discharge you or take the consequences.” 

“I don’t know that Mr. Conkling knows that I have been 
playing one of the machines.” 

“He will know it, and then he can retain you and take 
the consequences, or discharge you and keep the union work¬ 
men on the job. 

Dudley thought for a moment; he regarded the floor intently 
but made no reply. Anna continued: 

“And, Dudley, I’m going to demand, in fact I’m going to 
see that you join our union.” 

“Anna, I’ve told you time and again why I’d rather not 
join the union.” 

“That makes no difference; your reasons are not good 
ones—either you’re going to be for the union or for Mr. 
Conkling. It’s one or the other.” 

“Hasn’t Mr. Conkling paid you well?” 

“He had to. The union forced him to.” 

“Well, I know this: I have made no demands and I have 
no complaints.” 

“Most certainly not, but remember this: it is the union 
that has forced wages up. It and not Mr. Conkling deserves 
the credit for our present high scale of wages. You would be 
getting only a dollar a day if it were not for the union.” 

“Do you suppose?” 

“Greedy capitalists, a few years since, ground labor under 
their heels until it could scarcely exist, but thank heaven! a 
brighter day has dawned. It was unions that brought this 
change about; it was unions, I say, that forced the avaricious 
capitalist to give us a square deal.” 

“Mr. Conkling has never appeared to me to be exacting. 
Apparently, he has always seemed perfectly fair.” 

“Anyway, Dudley, if you and I are to be friends, you will 
have to join the union.” 


THE PRINTERS’ UNION 


175 


“Now, Anna, you’re not as fair as Mr. Conkling whom you 
charge with unfairness. Why, such a demand is unreason¬ 
able.” 

“Dudley Longden, if you don’t join the union before Satur¬ 
day night, you can never come to my home again,” replied 
Anna with glaring eyes. 

This was indeed a bold move on Anna’s part. She cer¬ 
tainly must have felt sure of her ground, for she had fear¬ 
lessly advanced and burned all the bridges behind her. She 
must have been absolutely sure that she could bend the bush 
as she chose—perhaps she thought the sapling was a willow 
when in truth it was an oak—a firm, unyielding oak. In a 
moment Dudley replied courteously: 

“Very well, Anna, I’ll think it over.” 

Dudley then turned nimbly upon his heels and walked away. 
As soon as Mr. Conkling entered his office, Dudley accosted 
him—Anna was busily engaged—saying: 

“Mr. Conkling, may I annoy you a moment?” 

“You certainly may, Dudley.” 

“Mr. Conkling, I believe the printers are going to strike.” 

“What makes you think so, Dudley?” 

“They have so many secrets, and they’re not taking any 
interest in their work.” 

“I, too, have noticed that.” 

“Besides, they’re trying to force me into the union.” 

“Would you like to join them, Dudley?” 

“No, I’d rather not, Mr. Conkling.” 

“Now, Dudley, you do whatever you think is best for 
you.” 

“I’m working for you and your interests, Mr. Conkling.” 

“Don’t worry about me, Dudley; you look after your own 
best interests.” 

“But they’re going to strike Saturday night, if I don’t join 
them, or you don’t discharge me.” 

“I’ll never discharge you, Dudley; you’ve been too trust¬ 
worthy and too faithful.” 

“Then I’ll never join the union, Mr. Conkling.” 

“Dudley, the Printer’s Union has had strike on the brain 
for more than a year, and I’m getting tired of hearing their 
threats. Now, if they want to strike, they can strike and get 
it out of their system. However, if they strike, I want them 
to stay out until they get enough of it, until they’re thoroughly 


176 


THE LONGDENS 


satisfied. If I weren’t treating them right, it would be an 
altogether different proposition. I have nothing against their 
union if it is reasonable; in fact, I’d rather treat with one 
man than five hundred, if that one man has a disposition to 
be fair; but I simply balk when one man or a dozen men 
try to force me.” 

“They are going to try to force you to pay them more money 
for fewer hours.” 

“I hope they don’t want a seven-hour day.” 

“They do, Mr. Conkling.” 

“Dudley, before I’ll grant it, I’ll lock up my printshop and 
quit. Dudley, I’m not a rich man, but I have enough capital 
to quit the newspaper business and live comfortably the rest 
of my days. I don’t see and I can’t see what these fellows 
mean; they’ve got to have work; I can get along without them, 
but they can’t get along without me or someone like me. Still 
they seem to regard me as their enemy, and they try to bluff 
me and intimidate me, as if I were dependent upon them. 
What would these fellows do, if the rich should lock their 
wealth in vaults, and let the poor man shift? How would he 
live? What would he do?” 

“Personally, I think they have no good reason for striking— 
they’re well paid, and they ought to be willing to work eight 
hours each day.” 

“Dudley, I simply can’t pay them any more money. If I 
did anything I’d reduce their wages.” 

“There’s going to be war, Mr. Conkling, so keep your eyes 
open,” said Dudley as he politely left the editor’s office. 

In an hour or so, Anna’s father entered “The Knicker¬ 
bocker” offices and called Dudley to one side, saying: 

“Well, Dudley, what are you going to do?” 

“What do you mean, Mr. Bridgeport?” 

“Are you or are you not going to join the union? I want 
an answer right now: Wes,’ or ‘No.’” 

“Mr. Bridgeport, I’m a friend of labor—I’m a laboring man 
myself, and I naturally have no reason for not being friendly 
to labor. But, as I have told Anna two or three times, Mr. 
Conkling took me in when I was down and out, when I was 
virtually a tramp, when I was hungry and tired and weary of 
life; and he has been a father to me ever since. Would you, 
Mr. Bridgeport, join a union in opposition to your father’s 
interests ?” 


THE PRINTERS’ UNION 


177 


“I would. The union will do more for you than your 
father would ever do. Besides if your father has treated 
his workmen right, the union will not hurt him.” 

“Explain how the unions will do more for you than your 
father.” 

“Why, any fool can see that you would now be getting ten 
dollars a week instead of thirty-five, had the union not set 
the pace by fixing the scale high, very high. The unionists are 
the fellows that you should thank for your thirty-five dollars a 
week.” 

“That’s exactly Anna’s argument, but Mr. Conkling was 
absolutely under no obligation to pay me more than four 
dollars a week.” 

“They say that you have been operating a linotype ma¬ 
chine secretly.” 

“For the pleasure of it, yes.” 

“Mr. Conkling has been paying you for this extra time?” 

“No sir, he has not.” 

“Who has?” 

“No one.” 

“Will you or will you not join our union?” 

“I haven’t decided yet what I’ll do.” 

“Take my advice and decide now.” 

“I’ll not join, Mr. Bridgeport, until I’m thoroughly con¬ 
vinced that the union is right. As I see it now, you are wrong 
in your decision to strike Saturday night.” 

“Why ? Wherein ?” 

“Because you have nothing to strike for. You’re getting 
better wages than you ever got before in all time.” 

“Sure; and we’re going to get more.” 

“I’m not so sure about that. Besides public opinion will 
decide against you, even if you win. You’ll bring your union 
into disrepute. The public is beginning to figure out who, in 
the end, pays these advances; and their attitude is becoming 
decidedly hostile toward unions generally, simply because the 
unions are making so many unreasonable demands. Unions 
are all right if you can hold the radicals down; but it seems, 
nowadays, that the radicals are in the majority.” 

“Then you think that labor should not be unionized?” 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“Capital is unionized. Capital co-operates. Capital has its 


178 


THE LONGDENS 


secret meetings and its secret understandings. Capital says, 
‘let the public be damned/ ” 

“I have never heard of its being so unwise.” 

“It virtually says it. It says it in actions, if not in words. 
How about the pink lead and popgun fellows'? How about 
the Tin Stove Manufacturers’ Association? The white mule 
control? The door register manufacturers?” 

“I confess that I know nothing about any of these.” 

“You’d better get in touch with the world of affairs if you’re 
going to pass judgment in matters of equity, and be a tribunal 
of justice who decides what is right and what is wrong.” 

“I’m not posing as a judge, nor have I ever considered my¬ 
self one.” 

“Practically all of the pink lead concerns send out cards 
at irregular intervals announcing their advances or their de¬ 
clines—how does it happen that all these fellows simul¬ 
taneously get the notion to increase or decrease the price of 
pink lead precisely the same number of cents on each hun¬ 
dred pounds? Is it accidental?” 

“It would seem not,” said Dudley. 

“I have been told, but I have never verified it, that every 
new tin stove that is manufactured by a member of The Tin 
Stove Manufacturers’ Association is shipped to Chicago where 
three experts tear it to pieces and fix the price at which it 
shall be sold.” 

“That’s undeniably wrong. It destroys competition and is in 
restraint of trade.” 

“Sure it’s wrong. Trusts and combinations and ‘gentlemen’ 
are as thick as ‘chinky pins’ of the forest. They pick 
the geese clean, still you hesitate about joining a labor union 
that is only asking a square deal and a living wage.” 

“If it were not for Mr. Conkling, I wouldn’t hesitate a 
moment.” 

“Dang Mr. Conkling! He’s as avaricious as the ammunition 
fellows who haven’t declined their prices one cent since the 
war.” 

“I don’t understand you, Mr. Bridgeport; you say that 
these trusts and understandings are wrong, still you want me 
to join one of them.” 

“Pool! I say that since capital is organized, labor is help¬ 
less, absolutely helpless if it does not organize; I say that labor 
must organize as a matter of self-protection.” 


THE PRINTERS’ UNION 


179 


“Still, because capital does wrong, that’s no reason that 
labor should do wrong.” 

“Oh, you rabbit! You remind me of that long-eared animal 
what brays. That’s Sunday school talk.” 

“Really, I can’t see wherein capital is any more avaricious 
than labor.” 

“You simply give me a pain.” 

“All of the enterprises of this country are not governed 
by a trust. The most of them compete.” 

“The industrial world of today resembles a barrel of 
apples: the good ones are all bad.” 

“I can’t see but that capital is as fair as labor,” said Dudley. 

“Then you think that capital is one of the angels that has 
never planted its iron heel upon the neck of labor until labor 
staggered and fell from hunger and exposure and exhaus¬ 
tion ?” 

“Yes, I think that capital did maltreat labor and impose 
upon it; but I also think that each has recently shown a dis¬ 
position, on sundry occasions, to totally destroy the other. 
Still neither can prosper without the other. Each is necessary 
to the other. However, capital can close its factories and 
wait, while labor must have work or starve. Capital is and 
always will be the more independent of the two.” 

“Labor does not claim to be perfect—it is human; but it 
does claim to be more perfect and more considerate than 
capital,” said Bridgeport. 

“Just the other day a New York contractor was forced by 
the labor union to pay a young man double time, while he ate 
his dinner, simply because the pumping machine which the 
young man operated, was allowed to run while the young fel¬ 
low ate his dinner—right or wrong?” 

“That same contractor had probably worked many a poor 
cuss to death.” 

“A year and one-half since, when an employer went through 
his wire-nail mill, one-third of the employees were sitting on 
their machines, whittling and telling jokes. These loafers paid 
absolutely no attention to their proprietor; in fact, they defied 
him. Mind you, he was paying them well for their work; but 
had he said a word to one of them, the entire force would have 
quit—right or wrong ?” 

“I’ll answer that question by asking one. Commission men 
in the city of Chicago a few years since allowed car-load after 


180 


THE LONGDENS 


car-load of potatoes to rot on the tracks in the railway yards, 
that they might keep the price of spuds up, when countless 
men, women and children were hungry and could not afford 
to pay the price—right or wrong?” 

“Wrong! Undeniably wrong! Capital, I say has many sins 
to answer for—so has labor.” 

“Peaches were wasting in Arkansas. They would not bring 
seventy-five cents a bushel; but here in New York they sold for 
four dollars and fifty cents a bushel—who was the hog? Who 
was the goat?” 

“Understand me, Mr. Bridgeport, Fm not defending capital 
—I’m a laboring man—but I say labor frequently hurts 
its own cause by being over-radical. It seems to me that we 
are drifting toward socialism.” 

“I should say that we are drifting toward socialism, and 
if the government doesn’t throttle these avaricious trusts 
speedily, we’ll never stop this side of Bolshevism,” 

“I agree that there’s too much profiteering, too much graft¬ 
ing in high places, too much stealing of big amounts and little 
amounts.” 

“Why, even the doctors stack the cards on you before you’re 
born and you have to pay the schedule; the produce man and 
the meat man get your pay envelope before you have a chance 
to see what you got, while the coffin trust and the undertaker 
take what is left in your pockets and a mortgage on your 
future for the balance; so what is a white man going to do 
if he doesn’t join the union?” 

“It’s an unfortunate predicament, I admit. They simply 
‘have us,’ I guess.” 

“But you’d allow yourself to be cooked and canned before 
you’d oppose the boss?” 

“I’d join the union forthwith, if I were employed by anyone 
else.” 

“So you will not join?” 

“No, Mr. Bridgeport, my conscience under the circumstances 
simply will not give its consent.” 

“Good day, sir—this is not the end. Remember this, Dudley 
Longden, if everything is tied up, if lives are lost and 
property is destroyed, you and you alone will be the cause. 
You, I say, could avert this strike, if you would; but since 
you refuse to act, you must shoulder the responsibility.” 


THE PRINTERS’ UNION 


181 


“I’m sorry I can’t give my consent to join the union, but 
my conscience forbids.” 

“I’d hate to have the responsibility of this strike hanging 
over me. However, it’s up to you and not to me—it will be 
your tea party.” 

“Goodby, Mr. Bridgeport.” 

The last few sentences of the walking delegate worried 
Dudley more than all else that he had said. He did not 
wish to be held responsible ethically, if not actually, for the 
loss of property and the loss of human life which sometimes 
accompanies our industrial strikes; so Dudley passed a rest¬ 
less night. 


XXII 


The Proposed Strike 

Monday morning dawned bright and clear. Mr. Conkling 
arose early. He had passed a sleepless night, wondering— 
wondering what the morrow had in store for him. Dudley 
had not joined the union, but the affair worried him con¬ 
siderably. He did not wish to be the cause or be held re¬ 
sponsible for the proposed strike. He had several confer¬ 
ences with Mr. Conkling at each of which Dudley tried to get 
the editor to say what he should do, but each time Mr. Conkling 
told him to use his own judgment. However, Dudley concluded, 
from some disconnected remarks that Mr. Conkling had made, 
that the editor deemed it wise that the Printer’s Union should 
be allowed to strike. Dudley decided that the owner of ‘‘The 
Knickerbocker” was of the opinion that the unionists would 
never be satisfied until they had struck and found out how 
poorly a strike secures results. 

Rumors of the impeding strike had been freely circulated 
on Saturday and Sunday, and they had been painfully discon¬ 
certing to Mr. Conkling who was sure that he had been doing 
more for his employees than he really could afford. He had 
muttered to himself repeatedly on Sunday: 

“What do these fellows mean? How foolish they are! They 
certainly know not what they do. I can lock up my print- 
shop for one, five, or ten years, and live comfortably, but 
these men have families and they’ll need bread. No working¬ 
man can afford to lose three months’ work, because he loses 
when he wins. We would not have any strikes were it not 
for the hotspurs, who little consider what the consequences 
may be.” 

Nevertheless the printer’s strike was on. There was no 
doubt about it. All the printers’ organizations had struck 
either in sympathy, or for some grievance real or fancied. 
The offices of “The Knickerbocker” were empty. Spiders were 
weaving their silken webs about the machinery of the linotype 
machines. The printers were expectantly marching up and 

182 


THE PROPOSED STRIKE 


183 


down the streets in groups awaiting developments. They 
wished to make sure that everything had stopped. When they 
were convinced that they had blocked the way, a knowing 
look of pleased satisfaction beamed from their countenances. 
It was, in truth, the old-time spirit of tyranny and force, of 
the battle belonging to the strong. They enjoyed immensely 
the discomfiture of their employer, the man without whom 
they could not exist. This employer may be greedy, avaricious, 
domineering, and unreasonable; still this same boss is, after all 
is said and done, the workman’s staunchest and most needed 
friend. 

The editorial staff of “The Knickerbocker” had remained at 
home through fear of personal violence. Mr. Conkling was 
unafraid, but he decided that it would be wise that he remain 
away from his office until the storm had subsided. Dudley 
alone was in charge. 

The immediate cause of the strike was Mr. Conkling’s 
positive refusal to dismiss Dudley Longden; the remote cause 
of the strike was the refusal of the editor to pay more money 
for fewer hours’ work. War had unsettled the whole civil¬ 
ized world. It had made thousands of millionaires who still 
were exacting war profits ; it had enabled the laboring man 
to live like a king, thereby causing him to be domineering and 
unreasonable; so both capital and labor now seemed to be in 
the same mental attitude: “Let the public be damned.” 

It was true that the war was over, but the world awoke 
the morning after with a bulging headache. It had not in¬ 
dulged in too many cocktails, but it had experienced some 
horrible dreams and a nerve-wracking nightmare. Now the 
dreadful orgy was over; however, the nerves of man and 
womankind had been shattered, and it had not yet con¬ 
valesced to the point of normalcy. The world was not exactly 
intoxicated, but it had been fearfully intemperate in dissipat¬ 
ing its energies, in squandering its billions, in its sacrifice of 
human life. 

Yes, everything had been stopped by the strike oi tne 
Printer’s Union. The idea of printing a four-page newspaper 
occurred to Dudley, and it forthwith appealed to him strongly. 
He called Mr. Conkling over the ’phone, and he immediately 
gave his consent. Dudley was pleased. He forthwith pulled 
off his coat and went to work. He wrote the editorials, ar¬ 
ranged the display ads, set the type and ran the press. At 


184 


THE LONGDENS 


four o’clock the papers were ready for distribution, but the 
newsboys did not come—they, too, bad struck in sympathy. 
Nevertheless Dudley was determined. He employed a half- 
dozen boys at two dollars each to sell the papers. Everybody 
bought one, for everybody was eager to see and eager to read 
what the paper had to say. Even the strikers bought them 
to see what they looked like. 

After a thousand or so copies had been sold, the regular 
newsboy’s organization, at the solicitation of the Printer’s 
Union, waylaid and attacked this more recent contingent of 
news distributors. Red and Brownie were the leaders. They 
were a fearless pair, unafraid of man or ghosts. They were 
now meeting in a council of war to discuss the strike situ¬ 
ation in an alley off of Broadway. At this particular inter¬ 
val Red had the floor and was gesticulating painfully as he 
said: 

“Yes, we struck in sympathy fer them there printers, but 
who’s a strikin’ in sympathy fer us-uns ? Don’t we-uns de¬ 
serve no sympathy, too?” 

“I don’t know about that, Red, but I guess not. Anyway, 
I don’t go much on sympathy. It’s poor diet. It’s like eatin’ 
hay. I’d rawther have a can of pork and beans.” 

“But, Brownie, sometimes sympathy gits you the pork and 
beans.” 

“Red, I'll tell you: I’d jist as soon have a basket of birds- 
nests as a bouquet of sympathy.” 

“That don’t make no difference—our job’s gone and the 
tother kids ere a-bankin’ the money. This is a tough old 
world, hain’t it?” 

“I say, ‘Dang this here strike business.’ They’ve got us 
in a perty mess now, hain’t they?” 

“Don’t these here strikers pay no benefits?” 

“Benefits? How kin they? There hain’t no money in the 
treasury.” 

“Them printers must be a crazy bunch, fer nobody but a 
crazy man would strike with no bread in the cupboard.” 

“I thought they struck so they could eat up the bread in 
the breadbox.” 

“Them bosses may be hogs, but they’re not ‘boobs,’ I want 
to tell you.” 

“I was jist wonderin’ if we was ‘boobs,’ too.” 


THE PROPOSED STRIKE 


185 


“One thing’s certain, we hain’t got no job, and I guess that 
a feller what hain’t got no job must be a ‘boob.’ ” 

“What are we goin’ to do? Jist let them fellers take our 
job without a fight? Why, they’ll think we’re a bunch of old 
women.” 

“I say, fight ’em, run ’em out.” 

“Well, let’s do it; let’s egsterminate ’em this very day.” 

“Red, you’re arfully ignorant—that hain’t the right word: 
you mean exterminate.” 

“I knowed that all the time—I jist wanted to see if you 
did. You bet we’ll exterminate ’em—no, we’ll not ‘say it 
with flowers.’ ” 

“Yep, the only way fer us to git satisfaction is to ‘step on 
’em’—air you ready?” 

“Ready!” 

“Have you got plenty of ammunition?” 

“I got two pockets full of eggs and one of hard lemons.” 

“All right—give me aome and we’re off.” 

Red grabbed up some stones and pieces of bricks, and, fol¬ 
lowed by Brownie, rushed out of the alley shouting viciously 
as he approached two of the novices: 

“Hey, you scabs, there! Air you a lookin’ fer trouble er 
jist a black eye?” 

“Give ’em ten minnetts, Red, to cash in.” 

“No, I’m not goin’ to give ’em ten minnets—I’ll jist give ’em 
five,” answered Red irately. 

“Don’t you fellers know nothin’? Don’t you know it’s im¬ 
polite to take another feller’s job when he’s a strikin’? Hain’t 
you acquainted with the rules?” questioned Brownie in a loud 
voice and with emphasis. 

“The novices paid no attention to Brownie’s speech, and kept 
shouting : 

“ ‘Knickerbockers’—five cents.” 

This angered Red and Brownie more than if they had 
talked back, and Red shouted viciously: 

“Hey! you boneheads! hain’t you got no politeness? Hain’t 
you had no raisin? Don’t you know what is proper? Don’t 
you know there hain’t no strike-breakers in heaven? Don’t 
you know a snake and a toad is better than a strike-breaker? 
Don’t you know everybody is a watchin’ us? Don’t you know 
this here strike is the biggest thing in the world ?” 

“Oh, give us a rest, Red,” answered one of the novices. 


186 


THE LONGDENS 


“Don’t you know, ‘Skinny,’ tkat the bosses is a tryin to 
give us a knockout? And don’t you know we’ll have to quit 
eatin’ if they win?” 

“Shut up, Redhead; you tend to your business and well 
tend to ours.” 

Red’s temper now flared like a blow-torch. He answered. 

“You d—d little whiffet, you come down the alley here, if 
you want to be put to sleep. You’re nothin’ but a scab, a 
coward, a strike-breaker, and a big hunk of nothin’. You d 
rob yer mother-in-law, er a graveyard, er a poorhouse, er a 
Sunday school. I say come down the alley here if you want 
to see mornin’-glories and rainbows—come along, I say, if 
you have got any sand.” 

The novices now decided that it was time to go. The at¬ 
mosphere was getting a little too torrid. So they made no 
reply and hurried away. But Red and Brownie followed them, 
and at every opportunity they pelted them with rotten lemons, 
tripped them, pushed them down, grabbed their paper bags 
and tore them up, rushed them down the alleys and smashed 
them on the nose and in the eye. Finally the half-dozen boys 
had been completely routed—they had been “egsterminated” 
literally. They slipped away home very much abused but 
very much wiser, while Red and Brownie, like game cocks, 
crowed lustily and triumphantly. 

Dudley then employed other boys and sent them out into 
the residential district to sell. This was successful for a while, 
but reports of what was being done were quickly passed along 
by union sympathizers, and these boys, too, were soon hunted 
down by Red and Brownie and their gang of bandits who 
now were the terror of all newsboy strike-breakers. 

After much walking they finally came upon another gang 
that was selling “Knickerbockers” in the residential district. 
Red shouted lustily: 

“Brownie, you smash that one with the straw hat on, and 
I’ll swat that one with the cap on.” 

“All right; you put yours to bed in Sleep Hollow, and I’ll 
put mine to gatherin’ wild flowers in the land of Timbuctoo.” 

The two novices ran like frightened deer, but Red and 
Brownie were fleet of foot and full of determination and self- 
confidence, and they soon caught up with them and pelted 
them with sticks and eggs, tore their papers into shreds, booted 


THE PROPOSED STRIKE 


187 


them with vigor, sent them sprawling upon the ground, and 
finally started them bellowing down the street. 

But in spite of all these scenes of terror, many papers were 
distributed. Red and Brownie could not be everywhere at 
the same time. It was the only paper printed in the city, 
and naturally it was in much demand. Mr. Conkling bought 
a copy with fear and trembling and many misgivings. He 
was almost afraid to read it lest he might be ashamed. He 
then censured and reproved himself caustically for giving his 
consent to such a wild and impractical idea. What could be 
expected of a farmer lad of twenty? It was folly to presume 
that a mere boy could edit a great metropolitan newspaper 
creditably. The whole newspaper world would now ridicule 
and make sport of him. He was annoyed, chagrined, mortified. 

He finally summoned enough courage to read it. The first 
page wasn’t so bad. It was, in truth, a newsy page, not at all 
spectacular or sensational, the two things which Mr. Conkling 
detested and disliked above everything else in a newspaper. 
All international happenings were not only cleverly condensed, 
but they were very readable. It undeniably indicated an in¬ 
tellectual grasp of world affairs that was, indeed, marvelous 
for a boy. Mr. Conkling then turned to the inside or edi¬ 
torial page. The first few editorials claimed his attention: 

“What is the matter with labor? Has it gone mad? It is 
better paid, better housed, has fewer hours, and is more 
highly respected than ever before—what more can it expect? 

“Every boss, if he is a good citizen, will pay his em¬ 
ployees so that they can live respectably, so they can by 
proper thrift have a home of their own, have decent clothes 
to wear, and have leisure to enjoy the better things of life. ^ 

“Every man has a perfect right to quit his job, if he isn’t 
satisfied with his wages or his hours or his associates; but has 
he a moral, or even a legal right to force others to quit? 

“Capital is very often avaricious and greedy and domineer¬ 
ing—so is labor. Ho human creature is perfect; so let’s take 
a good look at ourselves—maybe we’re partly to blame. 

“The officers of some labor unions seem to be obsessed with 
the idea that they must agitate and keep things stirred up, 
else they will not be able to hold their position. This view¬ 
point is wrong. The average prosperity of all the members is 
the only true measure of any officer’s tenure of office. 

“The whole civilized world is steadily moving onward toward 


188 


THE LONGDENS 


one race and one language; and that race is the English race, 
and that language is the English language. The black man, 
the red man, the yellow man will eventually be absorbed. The 
white man may be slightly changed, but in the main the new 
race will be the white race, because it is the most virile and 
the most aggressive that has yet appeared upon the face of the 
earth. 

“Civilization needs the Teuton. German culture and German 
learning are necessary to modern progress. The world cannot 
attain its best without the Teuton.” 

“Birth control is coming. Paupers and criminals should 
not be allowed to be the parents of children. The immoral 
and the illiterate should be governed by severe marital laws. 
No one, who has been sentenced to a jail, or a prison, or a 
penal farm should be permitted to rear a family. Again the 
size of every family should be directly dependent upon the 
income and morals and literacy of that family. The race needs 
pruning. The undesirables, like water sprouts in our orchards, 
ought to be destroyed and not allowed to propagate. Hu¬ 
maneness requires it; charity requests it; and the race de¬ 
mands it.” 

Mr. Conkling was strongly pro-English, but unions were 
now uppermost in his mind, and he did not notice the editorial 
illusion to Germany. Ordinarily it would have been bitterly 
assailed by both editor and the public, but at this time it 
passed unnoticed. Mr. Conkling was pleased, if not amazed 
at the intellectual grasp of Dudley Longden. He saw in him 
the making of a great man. 

The unions were now intensely angered. They decided to 
beat this daring young farmer boy, if they did nothing else. 
The various advertisers of “The Knickerbocker” were seen at 
once, at which time the strike leaders served notice upon each 
of them that every union man in New York City would be in¬ 
structed to boycott them, if they inserted another advertisement 
in “The Knickerbocker” before the demands of the strikers 
were acceded to. So on the following morning “The Knicker¬ 
bocker” telephone kept up a ceaseless rattle; many advertisers 
were abruptly ordering their ads discontinued; others were more 
polite in their requests, saying diplomatically that they did 
not have time to prepare the copy; nevertheless the effect upon 
Dudley was the same—disheartening. 

Dudley was naturally dispirited—everybody seemed to be 


THE PROPOSED STRIKE 


189 


pulling against him. No one offered him any words of en¬ 
couragement. Only six advertisers “stuck.” After careful 
figuring he found that he would barely come out even on 
this business venture, if he charged nothing for his time. 
Thus, Mr. Conkling would lose nothing and he would have the 
experience; so he decided to continue the paper. 

All that day Dudley received innumerable letters—threaten¬ 
ing letters, Black Hand letters. Every mail brought an in¬ 
creased consignment, but Dudley was not easily frightened. 
It was Tuesday evening near dusk. A group of strikers 
gathered across the street from “The Knickerbocker” build¬ 
ing. Stones at once began to hail upon the plate-glass front 
of the newspaper office. A large plate glass was shattered— 
broken into smithereens. The noise of the crash was appalling. 
It seemed as though Bedlam had certainly broken loose. 
The strikers ran. Dudley knew that it was the work of van¬ 
dals—an irresponsible element which accompanies every strike 
as surely as confidence men and crooks accompany every circus. 
It is true that such things are not countenanced or sanctioned 
by the better and more conservative element of the labor 
unions. Dudley said nothing when the crash occurred, but 
he calmly set about nailing up the window with boards that he 
might keep out the wind, the water, and the desperadoes. 

“The Knickerbocker,” still a four-page paper, appeared on 
the second evening with its greatly reduced number of ad¬ 
vertisers. The strikers were jubilant; but the paper was as 
well arranged as upon the first evening. Some of the radicals 
were not satisfied. They decided that they must resort to 
more drastic measures, that they must do something to com¬ 
pletely stop this pestiferous publication. Dudley Longden 
was a shrewder intelligence than they had counted upon; he 
was fearless and he was able. The editorials on this second 
evening were as well written as upon the first evening, one of 
which read as follows: 

“The allies must not now be too tyrannical with Germany. 
She is down and out, and she cannot pay until she gets up— 
nobody can milk a cow with any satisfaction while she’s 
down. Let’s all of us be men and stand for fair play.” 

The next day Dudley went to lunch at the customary time. 
Crowds of strikers were marching up and down the streets past 
the publishing houses. Bitterness was in their eyes and malice 
was in their hearts. They commenced holloaing “scab,” 


190 


THE LONGDENS 


“traitor,” “crook,” as soon as they saw Dudley coming on the 
opposite side of the street. Someway, the police were not 
there. They seemed to be busily engaged elsewhere. They 
may have been in sympathy. Two more groups of strikers, 
one in front of Dudley and one behind him, kept back the 
tide of pedestrians; but, unnoticed, a frail little girl of nine 
who was at Dudley’s side was screened from view by him and 
was unnoticed by the strikers. A hailstorm of bricks and 
stones suddenly rained all about Dudley, and one struck him 
fair upon the forehead, and one struck the little girl near 
the heart. Both fell heavily to the sidewalk. Some of the 
strikers hooted, some laughed, some jollified, some ridiculed. 
It was Mr. Hyde that laughed, it was the brute in man that 
hooted, it was Satan that ridiculed, it was hell that jollified. 
No strike was ever won in this manner; on the contrary, many 
strikes have been lost by just such tactics. Public opinion will 
not countenance such things. 

Many pedestrians quickly came to the assistance of the 
stricken. The little girl was limp and seemingly lifeless. 
Dudley, too, was unconscious, and blood was trickling down 
his face in rivulets. An ambulance was at once summoned, 
and they were hurried away to a hospital. The doctors 
forthwith pronounced the girl dead, but after a careful 
diagnosis they decided in Dudley’s case that there was no 
concussion. However, when he had not yet rallied from his 
stupor on the following morning, they were nonplussed and 
alarmed. 

Naturally, Mr. Conkling was depressed, grieved, sad, in¬ 
censed. He would not have worried more had Dudley Longden 
been his own son. He not only provided the best medical and 
surgical talent that money could procure, but he ’phoned the 
hospital hourly relative to Dudley’s condition. When he was 
informed on the following morning that Dudley had not yet 
aroused from his stupor, he was very sad. He was now 
opposed to and intensely angry at labor unions generally, 
pronouncing all of them bad. In fact, he was determined to 
beat the Printer’s Union, no difference what the cost, or how 
great the sacrifice. 

The doctors were fearful lest there might be a fracture. 
They were sure that there should be some signs of returning 
consciousness, if their patient was ever going to convalesce. 
However that afternoon Dudley’s heart seemed a little stronger, 


THE PROPOSED STRIKE 


191 


and his eyes had a little more luster, although he was still 
dazed and still in a stupor. The doctors, nevertheless, were 
encouraged. On the following day more palpable signs of 
returning consciousness were apparent. Mr. Conkling sent 
large vases of carnations, roses, daffodils or sweet peas daily. 
He wrote Grace as follows: 

“Dear Grace: 

Everything is going wrong. The printers are on a 
strike. Dudley attempted to edit the paper by himself, 
but this so angered the strikers that they struck him, and 
a little girl at his side, down in the street. Yesterday 
there seemed to be no chance for Dudley, but he now 
seems to be slowly convalescing. I fear the trouble is 
not yet over. 

Grace, Dudley is a boy in ten thousand. He is the 
truest fellow that ever worked for me. I could trust him 
implicitly, and his intelligence in an emergency has been 
a revelation to me. I hope all will yet be well. 

From your Father.” 

In two days Mr. Conkling received the following answer: 
“Dear Papa: 

I’m so sorry that you’re having so much trouble. It 
will not be long until Robert will be with you. He’ll 
take all these worries off your shoulders. You can safely 
leave everything in Robert’s hands while you take a 
two-year vacation; and when you return, you’ll find that 
your capital stock has been doubled during your absence. 

Dudley may be honest and intelligent, but I never 
could like the boy, he’s too careless about his dress, and 
he’s too poorly groomed. 

Love, from your daughter, Grace.” 

In another week Dudley was removed to his home. He 
was now recovering by leaps and bounds. Mr. Conkling was 
overjoyed. He continued to send flowers in great profusion 
to make plain his appreciation of Dudley’s efforts in his 
behalf, and he frequently called upon him personally. Anna, 
too, came to see him one day, saying sympathetically, address¬ 
ing Dudley who was now sitting up: 


192 


THE LONGDENS 


“How are you Dudley ?” 

“Very well, X guess,” answered Dudley indifferently. 

“I’m so sorry that this happened.” 

“Your union did it,” answered Dudley caustically. 

“No, Dudley, the union did not do it—you are mistaken— 
it was some wild-eyed enthusiast who did not have the interests 
of the union at heart.” 

“I firmly believe that every member of your union rejoiced 
when they learned that I had been hurt,” answered Dudley 
bitterly. 

“Dudley, you’re unkind and unjust.” 

“Never mention Union to me again, Anna. Capital at times 
may be greedy and unjust, but it has never attempted any¬ 
thing like this. Still you want me to excuse the union, to 
join the union, when the union tried to spill my life-blood. 
I’ll never do it. I’ll never join such an organization, I say. 
I consider myself too good to ally myself with a gang of high¬ 
waymen.” 

“Dudley, you should be more charitable. You don’t think 
for one moment that my father would do such a thing, do 
you?” 

“I don’t know anything about what your father would do.” 

“Of course papa wouldn’t do such a thing, and you know 
he wouldn’t.” 

“No, I don’t know, Anna—I wish I did.” 

Anna now saw that Dudley was not only unfriendly, but 
bitter. The flame of love had flickered and died. The very 
atmosphere was cold and uninviting. Anna did not tarry. 
She, without ceremony, bid Dudley adieu, wishing that she had 
not called. 

That same day at eventime the postman delivered a letter 
with a Waterloo, Ohio, post mark. Upon the front of the 
envelope was crudely scrawled with a lead pencil, “Mrs. 
Hiram Longden, New York City, care of ‘The Knicker¬ 
bocker.’ ” It was scarcely legible, but it had found its desti¬ 
nation. It was a surprise. It made the whole household glad, 
and it read as follows: 

“Dear Wife: 

I’ve got back home agin. It was a tiresome trip. I’m 

so lonesome. You hain’t been gone but eight weeks, but 


THE PROPOSED STRIKE 


193 


it seems like eight years. I do wish youuns would come 
home. 

Course I was glad to git back after my trip to Hew 
York, but somethin’s wrong. Is it Hiram, er is it the 
rest of creation? When I reached home, the dog, as soon 
as he seed me, tucked his tail between his legs and 
run and hid; the chickens, they cackled and craned their 
necks and went flyin’ to their roosts as if a chicken hawk 
was spiralin’ overhead; and the horses, they kicked up 
their heels, snorted and run away from me. It seems that 
nobody loves me. Is it Hiram’s fault? Is I out of tune, 
er is the rest of creation all crooked and crossways? 
From now on I’m goin’ to be cheerful and generous, 
even though it costs me. 

Modder, when ere you a cornin’ home? But, modder, 
I hain’t a askin’ you to come home fer my sake—not at all. 
You jist stay ’til you git good and ready to come, modder. 
I want to see you have a good time. I want to see you 
git young agin, jist like you was when I was a courtin’ 
you nigh twenty-five years ago. Yes, I want you to have 
a good time, modder, and enjoy yourself and git young 
agin. This here is like ‘solitary confinement,’ but I kin 
endure it a lifetime, if it will make my sweetheart young 
again, jist like you was when I used to make wreaths 
out of clover blooms and put ’em on yer head. 

I’m sending you two hundred dollars, modder. Buy 
yourself somethin’ with one hundred dollars of it; then 
buy Dudley a suit of clothes, tony ones—Dudley’s a great 
boy, and I want him to shine. That there boy could en¬ 
tertain the Kaiser and not half try. Then buy the rest of 
the childrens twenty dollars’ worth of chocolates and some 
shoes—spend every cent of it before you stop. I’ve 
been a thinkin’, and I hain’t found out yit what the blasted 
stuff is good fer, if hit hain’t good to spend. 

Life’s so short, modder. Let’s be cheerful and happy and 
gay. The first cold spell what comes, I’ll send you some 
dressed chickens by parcels post, and when I butcher, 
I’ll send you the tenderloins. 

Goodby, modder, with lots of love from 


fodder." 


194 


THE LONGDENS 


When the mother had finished reading the letter aloud, the 
entire family was in tears. In truth the Longdens were dazed, 
dumfounded, nonplussed. Not one of them could believe his 
senses. Dudley suddenly forgot his illness, grabbed his mother 
by the arms, kissed her repeatedly, and then waltzed her 
around the room a full half-dozen times. The rest of the 
children soon joined the procession. 


XXIII 


Mr. Conkling and Robert 

February with its snow, its cold, and its biting north 
winds held New York in its grip. The printers’ strike had 
been arbitrated, the “fall vacations” were over. The strikers 
had gone back to work at the old schedule. Dudley, too, had 
now returned to “The Knickerbocker” offices. Mr. Conkling 
had advanced him—had made him associate editor. In order 
that any further friction might be avoided, it was mutually 
agreed that Dudley should never again operate a linotype 
machine. 

Robert Tadmore had been, since January first, an em¬ 
ployee of “The Knickerbocker.” He was a very valuable man 
in his own estimation. He glided and sailed through the 
various offices as serenely as a barn swallow. He spoke as one 
having authority, and officiously assumed the role of general 
manager. Mr. Conkling viewed the young popinjay with 
a feeling of disgust, seasoned with dislike, but for his daugh¬ 
ter’s sake, he forebore and said nothing. He was firmly of the 
opinion that such fellows sooner or later dig their own graves, 
and he especially hoped it would prove true in this instance. 

One morning in late February when Dudley was looking 
after some outside business, Robert chestily and boldly entered 
Mr. Conkling’s private office, without even a rap at the door, 
saying: 

“Mr. Conkling, there’s too much running around during 
office hours by ‘The Knickerbocker’ employees, and I’ve de¬ 
cided to stop it.” 

“For instance.” 

“Why Dudley Longden doesn’t stay in his office half of the 
time, and I’m going to put a stop to it.” 

“Do you mean that he loafs during office hours?” 

“I do.” 

“I grant you that loafing during office hours is serious and 
ought not to be tolerated.” 

“I’ll bet you I’ll stop it. It’s no wonder that ‘The 

195 


196 


THE LONGDENS 


Knickerbocker’ doesn’t clean up two million a year instead of 
one.” 

“Not too fast, Mr. Tadmore.” 

“Why not cure the patient now? Why dally?’ 

«Do you absolutely know that Dudley is a loafer?” 

“Sure—where is he right now?” 

“I sent him out on some special business.” 

“I’d look after all such matters for you without extra charge, 
and I’d thereby give you the benefit of my college framing 
with no extra cost to you.” 

“I certainly thank you for your kindness.’ 

“A college man can handle a business transaction so much 
more diplomatically, you know, than a farmer boy.” 

“No, I didn’t know that.” 

“Besides, I have decided that ‘The Knickerbocker’ offices 
need a more up-to-date system; and, as soon as I can get to it, 
I’m going to re-arrange the entire establishment, so that all 
business transactions of a hundred dollars or more will re¬ 
ceive my 0. K. before they are binding.” 

“I presume you will do me the courtesy of allowing me to 
see your plan before you inaugurate it.” 

“If you wish, I will.” 

“I most assuredly wish it.” 

“Your methods are antiquated, Mr. Conkling, while nowa¬ 
days everything is progressive.” 

“You are very frank in your likes and dislikes. 

“I shall not make any radical changes before tomorrow.” 

“I repeat that I presume that the proprietor would not be 
intruding, should he ask to be consulted before these changes 

are made.” . 

“No I presume you would be entitled to that consideration; 
still, if the success or failure of this paper is going to rest 
upon my shoulders, I feel that I should have a free and un¬ 
trammelled right to do as I please. 

“The sport department, I believe, is your field, and I shall 
watch with eagerness and pride your rise in this field. I 
should never think of burdening you, however, with the mo¬ 
mentous task of looking after the Sport Department and that 
of general manager, too.” 

Robert, subconsciously knew that he had been set upon, but 
he could not understand why. He was amazed at Mr. Con- 


MR. CONKLING AND ROBERT 


197 


kling’s seeming indifference in the very presence of wisdom; 
and, finally, he queried: 

“Isn’t my work satisfactory, Mr. Conkling?” 

“Oh, I guess it is passable,” answered the editor without 
enthusiasm. 

“Have you any suggestions ?” 

“Yes, I have one; always print the truth.” 

“Haven’t If’ 

“A portion of the time you have not only guessed at the 
truth, but you have guessed wrong.” 

“That happens in every newspaper office.” 

“It doesn’t happen very often in ‘The Knickerbocker’ offices, 
Mr. Tadmore. When you are guessing, always say that this 
is the guess of the sport editor.” 

“Very well; I’ll remember that inasmuch as it is your wish.” 

“You’re very considerate.” 

“Does this paper ever accept bribes?” 

“Never. Be courteous to everybody, but always print the 
truth.” 

“If John Jones offered you five thousand dollars for a puff, 
why not accept it?” 

“Because we have advertising space to sell John Jones for 
just such purposes; and in this space he can do his own 
‘puffing’ at more reasonable rates.” 

“But it would not be as effective.” 

“The personal opinions of the editors of ‘The Knickerbocker* 
are not for sale—they are honest convictions and cannot be 
bought with gold or silver.” 

“I did not know that a newspaper had convictions—I, I 
mean I thought newspapers sold out to the highest bidder.” 

“Not always.” 

“Really, I can see nothing wrong with giving a fellow a 
boost and charging him for it.” 

“How do you know that the fellow merits a boost? We 
haven’t time to trace a fellow’s movements and motives back 
to his genesis.” 

Robert now saw that he was making no progress, that he 
could not cope with Mr. Conkling in an argument even though 
his system of running a newspaper was antiquated, but he 
ventured another question: 

“Do you believe in besmirching a man’s reputation?” 

“Not unless he has besmirched it himself.” 


198 


THE LONGDENS 


“What good does it do even then?” 

“The same good that the truth does the public on every or 
any subject.” 

“I never could see what good it did to kick a fellow alter 
he’s down.” 

“Just the same amount of good that it does to punish a 
fellow criminally after he has committed a crime—it acts as a 
deterrent to other criminals.” 

Robert again changed the subject by inquiring: 

“Are you acquainted with Dudley Longden’s past ?’ 

“I know very little about Dudley Longden.” 

“He has little to recommend him.” 

“Just what do you mean by that—be more specific.” 

“I’d rather not answer—he was a playmate of mine, you 
know.” 

“Indeed!” 

“Yes, I knew Dudley and his parents quite well.’ 

“He has a responsible position with me; and, if his past is 
tainted or clouded, I should like to know it.” 

“Well, I’ll tell you this much, Mr. Conkling: had his father 
not intervened, Dudley would have been arrested for stealing 
books.” 

“He was generally regarded as a thief?” 

“Yes, in that community.” 

“Why didn’t he buy his books f” 

“That’s the question.” 

“His father gave him all the money that he wanted?” 

(e l presume.” 

“His father was generous?” 

“Yes, he was considered very generous.” 

“You say that you knew him quite well?” 

“I knew him well.” 

“He was an educated man and believed in education?” 
“Yes, he was an enthusiast along this line.” 

“The father got along well with his family? They loved 
him and he loved them?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then Dudley deserves dismissal after he has been given 
the severest reprimand that can be administered. You would 
advise it?” 

“It would certainly be just.” 

“Then you tarry around here until Dudley returns and 


MR. CONKLING AND ROBERT 


199 


we’ll hold a court of inquiry—I want you for my star wit¬ 
ness.” 

“No, no, no! Never! I’ll never do anything like that. 
Don’t you dare to even mention my name.” 

“That’s strange; here’s a fox in the chicken-house, and you 
won’t help me catch him.” 

“My early acquaintance with Dudley forbids.” 

“Then you care less for the success, the ultimate success of 
‘The Knickerbocker’ than you care for your boyhood friend¬ 
ships ?” 

“Anyway, I refuse to act as the incriminating witness.” 

“Why? I can’t see why. You’ve told me the truth, haven’t 
you?” 

“Most assuredly, but I’ve told you why I do not wish to be 
implicated.” 

“The point is simply here: ‘The Knickerbocker’ offices are 
run on a high plane of honor, and the fellow who doesn’t 
measure up, must go.” 

“But, Mr. Conkling, you simply must not use my name.” 

“How could I handle the case unless I used your name? 
I could not dismiss him summarily without giving him some 
reason. No one ought to convict a young man on intangible, 
hearsay, or moonshine evidence.” 

“If you should implicate me, I should be compelled to 
deny that I said it.” 

“What! What did you say? Why, you amaze me.” 

“I have given you my reasons.” 

Then you should not make charges, if you’re not willing to 
stand behind them. Any boy who has a generous, consider¬ 
ate father should not steal, and if he does steal, he should not 
hold a responsible position in ‘The Knickerbocker’ offices.” 

“I grant it; in fact, if I were you, I’d ‘fire’ him.” 

“Your position in this matter is certainly unique; you want 
to see Dudley dismissed, but you refuse to take any part in it.” 

“My position is simply this: Dudley Longden is not a big 
enough man to be an editor’s assistant.” 

“Now you’re talking about an entirely different matter; 
bigness, as you use it, refers to ability, but the charges that 
you made against Dudley were matters of right and wrong. 
One has to do with capacity and intellectual grasp, while the 
other has to do with morals and integrity. I believe I am 


200 


THE LONGDENS 


competent to pass on the former, but the latter Fm unable to 
pass upon without the facts.” 

“I have given you a Tip/ now you can use your judgment. 
“You have no ulterior motive ?” 

“None whatsoever.” 

“Just what, then, is your intent ?” 

“I merely want to help you clean house.” 

“That person makes a poor housecleaner who refuses to 
use one of the brooms, when the house needs cleaning.” 

“Anyway, I do not wish to be a party to Dudley s dis¬ 
missal, and I feel that my reasons are perfectly sane.” 

“Dudley certainly displayed remarkable courage and loyalty 
during the printers’ strike.” 

“ An y American boy would have done the same thing. 
“Then why didn’t they? No other newspaper was printed 
in New York except the one that Dudley printed. The other 
newspaper offices have boys.” 

“Anyway the World War proved that every American boy 
is a hero when the occasion demands it.” 

“What did Dudley do with the books he stole.” 

“Read them and returned them.” 

“Oh, he just stole them for a little while?” 

“Yes, it’s my understanding that he returned them; but if he 
stole them for five minutes, it was stealing just the same.” 

“I’d call that splitting hairs. Besides, I can’t understand 
why Dudley should steal a series of books to read and then 
return them to the owner unsoiled, if his father was such a 
generous fellow. That story sounds queer to me.” 

Robert winced, after which his soul was stirred with anger, 
and he retorted: 

“I trust you are not doubting my word.” 

“I’m not doubting anybody’s word, but I have a right to 
form my own conclusions, and this one is simply this: any 
boy who is ambitious enough to steal books for self-improve¬ 
ment, certainly has my profound respect.” 

“Then you condone thievery? You not only excuse it, but 
congratulate the fellow that practices it?” 

“In this case, yes.” 

“That’s certainly a dangerous policy to advocate, Mr. Con- 
kling. An y kind of thievery can be excused on such grounds.” 

“Nevertheless, with your consent, I’ll respect that young man 
who is ambitious to get books ‘somehow,’ someway, that he may 


MR. CONKLING AND ROBERT 


201 


satisfy the yearning of his soul for knowledge, if by so doing 
he harms no one.” 

“You know he is a German?” 

“There are lots of patriotic Germans in the United States. 

“But Dudley is a German sympathizer.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Didn’t I live on the farm that joined that of his father’s 
for sixteen years? Haven’t I heard Dudley talk? Haven’t I 
heard him swear eternal allegiance to the Fatherland?” 

“I don’t know it—no—and I don’t believe it.” 

“Have you not noticed that wire pin that he wears?” 

“Yes, I have. However, I’m not convinced.” 

“Anyway that pin is his pledge to the Kaiser.” 

“You did wear one of gold.” 

“I did, but I have changed my mind. I was mislead, mis¬ 
informed. I learned the truth of the whole diabolical business 
and repented.” 

“Perhaps, Dudley, too, has repented.” 

“I have nothing more to say—you have the ‘tip.’ ” 

“Dudley’s course while in my employ has been absolutely 
above reproach.” 

“Mr. Conkling, I’ve told you all of this for your own good, 
but as I said, I repeat: I do not want my name used in con¬ 
nection with anything that you say to Dudley.” 

“You’re not jealous of Dudley’s advances, are you?” 

“No sir, I’m not.” 

Robert hesitated. He seemed to be in doubt relative to 
something. He regarded the floor intently. However he 
quickly recovered and said: 

“Say, Mr. Conkling, my money’s all tied up in securities 
that will not mature for a couple months yet; I wondered 
if you would advance me five hundred dollars.” 

“It would be contrary to my rule.” 

“I’ll repay you soon.” 

“No other employee has ever asked such a favor of me. 
I try to pay all of my employees enough money so they will 
not have to borrow money of anyone.” 

“It’s humiliating to me to ask you, I assure you. It’s some¬ 
thing I’ve never done before, but a combination of circum¬ 
stances has driven me to it.” 

“You would want me to take a hundred dollars out each 
week?” 


202 


THE LONGDENS 


“No, no, Mr. Conkling. I’d rather repay you in a lump 
sum—say, in thirty days. I'll have a bunch of interest coming 
in within sixty days at the outside.” 

“When do you want the money?” 

“Now, Mr. Conkling, if it is convenient.” 

“I’ll break my rule in this one instance, if borrowing money 
isn’t a practice of yours.” 

“It isn’t.” . , . 

Mr. Conkling did not reply, wheeled about in his office chair, 
wrote a check for five hundred dollars, and handed the 
same to young Tadmore just as Dudley entered Mr. Conkling s 
office to make a special report on the business that had been 
assigned to him. Robert excused himself pompously, went 
directly to his desk where he presumably was soon hard at 
work. 

It was now quitting time. The roar and the thunder of the 
big press had ceased and was resting from its labors after 
having turned out a half a million papers. Dudley was just 
quitting “The Knickerbocker” building. Susan was waiting 
for him at the entrance, and as he approached, she accosted 
him: 

“How are you feeling, Dudley?” 

“Oh, I’m all right, Susan.” 

“I haven’t seen you since you were hurt.” 

“Oh, I’ve forgotten all about that little incident.” 

“These unions are made up of brutal fellows.” 

“Still, they’re not all brutal. There are lots of good fellows 
in all unions.” 

“Like every other organization, I suppose the bad will slip 
in sometimes.” 

“Heard from home recently?” 

“Not a word. In fact I’m getting sick for some news.” 
“You know that mother is staying with me this winter?” 
“Someone told me that, but I had forgotten it.” 

“That certainly makes it fine for me; I’m enjoying life very 
much nowadays.” 

“I understand that Mr. Conkling has made you associate 
editor.” 

“Yes, he has, Susan.” 

“I’m so sorry, Dudley, that I allowed Robert to interfere 
with our social relations. 

“Oh, that’s all right, Susan—don’t worry about that.” 


MR. CONKLING AND ROBERT 


203 


“But you never come to see me any more.” 

“Oh, Fm so very busy, Susan; but some day Fll see you.” 

“Can’t you come this evening, Dudley? I’m homesick.” 

“I couldn’t come this evening, Susan.” 

“Tomorrow evening?” 

“I have an engagement for tomorrow evening, too; but some 
day I’ll call upon you, Susan.” 

“Goodby, Dudley,” answered Susan tearfully, for she was 
sorely disappointed. 

Dudley started hastily on, when he was suddenly waylaid 
by Robert who was standing in a doorway waiting for him. As 
soon as he had caught the step, he queried: 

“Dudley, my money is all tied up in securities, and I’ll not 
be able to realize upon them for a few months. I need some 
ready cash—could you spare a friend a couple hundred for a 
month or two?” 

“Yes, I’ll accommodate you, Robert—I’m sure you would do 
the same for me if I needed help. Besides, I know that you 
would boost for me and stand up for me, if someone should 
abuse me in your presence and my absence. So I certainly 
will let you have the money, but when do you want it?” 

“Not later than in the morning, Dudley.” 

“Very well, I’ll have it for you; I’ll not need it for four 
or five weeks.” 

“Dudley, I’m going to Belmont in the morning on the first 
train.” 

“To Belmont?” 

“Yes, Mr. Conkling wants me to go.” 

“On business?” 

“Oh, you’re slow, Dudley—Mr. Conkling wants me to go 
on a special mission; he wants me to call upon his daughter. 
You know that Grace is in school there; and she, too, has com¬ 
manded me to come, and of course, I’m going.” 

“I’m not very well acquainted with Grace.” 

“She’s certainly a queen—the dearest, dandiest girl that I 
ever knew.” 

“Why don’t you drive your machine?” 

“Oh, my machine is ‘jimmed’—fit’s got sand in the gear box,’ 
I guess. But I’m not going to buy a new one until I get my 
returns from my securities, and then I fear that Mr. Conkling 
will want me to use his car instead of buying a new one.” 


204 THE LONGDENS 

“Robert, I simply would not drive another man’s car for a 
thousand dollars.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because, to be honest with you, it’s ‘nervy’; because it 
presumes too much; because there’s too much danger of having 
an accident.” 

“You’re too finicky, Dudley. Mr. Conkling wouldn’t like it, 
should I refuse to use his car.” 

“I fear you’re not acquainted with Mr. Conkling.” 

“Perhaps you do not know that I soon will be one of the 
family.” 

“Indeed! No, I didn’t know that—congratulations!” 

“Thanks! yes, the entire family is in love with me.” 

“Anyway let me tell you my discovery and you can use it or 
not use it as you see fit: Mr. Conkling is a princely fellow, 
but he’s unbelievably shrewd. He reads your thoughts. and 
analyzes your motives in the twinkle of an eye. He believes 
in hard work and he believes in system—yes, he’s a crank on 
system—and, let me emphasize the following: he asks no favors 
of anyone and he grants but few. Now draw your own con¬ 
clusions and act accordingly.” 

“Grace does as she pleases.” 

“True, she’s his daughter.” 

“And I’ll soon be his son-in-law.” 

“That’s fine; however, remember this Robert, Mr. Conkling 
is a perfect gentleman at all times and in all places. When he 
dismisses an employee, he does it diplomatically and very 
politely. He never storms, he never raves or pulls his hair, 
he doesn’t resort to abuse or unkind words; on the contrary, 
you’d think that he was about to weep when he solemnly leads 
you to the back door and boots or pushes you out.” 

At this juncture Robert and Dudley parted. The truth of 
it was: young Tadmore had borrowed money of every employee 
about the office, although he had been there less than sixty 
days. He always gave them his business card with an “I. 0. 
U.” and the amount written plainly on the back of it as an 
acknowledgment of the obligation. A young spendthrift is 
like unto a toboggan going downhill; it gains momentum as 
it goes, and stopping is practically impossible unless there is a 
collision and a disaster. 


XXIY 


A Dinner Party 

A dinner party was in progress in New York, on a fine 
evening in May. Robert Tadmore was the presiding host. He 
had invited Grace Conkling, Helen Hunt, and a half-score of 
other young ladies with their masculine friends to dine with 
him. It was a pretentious affair. The caterers were the 
swellest, the American beauties were the reddest, and the menu 
was the best that New York could furnish. 

After dinner, in accordance with the invitation, the entire 
party went to Floradora, which was just now enjoying its 
second wave of popularity. Robert, although a bankrupt, was 
still a prodigal spender and never allowed expenses to stand in 
the way of a good time. He liked to be on the band wagon— 
he really enjoyed the distinction of being the center of attrac¬ 
tion, so he naturally enjoyed being host. 

As heretofore Robert was well dressed—he was, in fact, 
dressed in the pink of fashion. He considered himself the 
beau of New York society, and it was his practise to smile 
buoyantly and knowingly at all the well-dressed young ladies 
whom he met upon the street, even though they were strangers 
to him. Neither did he hesitate to carry on extended flirtations 
with them—few seemed to resent the questionable familiarity. 
It is indeed strange how any well-dressed youth can so easily 
win the favor of so many presumably good women at sight. 
Is womankind “slipping”? Or is woman naturally indis¬ 
creet? Or is it a question of morals? 

Robert had commodious and well-furnished rooms at 
“The Tavern,” which was the best bachelor’s hall in New York. 
It was furnished with every convenience. It was equipped 
with electric fans that made winter out of summer, and a heat¬ 
ing device that made summer out of winter; it had a mam¬ 
moth library, countless servants, the latest magazines; ice- 
water, hot, cold, shower, and Turkish baths; anything to 
drink and everything to smoke; and all of those other con- 

205 


206 


THE LONGDENS 


veniences which make the life of a bachelor a dream, and a 
perpetual delight. 

After the theater, Robert escorted his guests to the cafe of 
his fashionable bachelor’s hall, where there had been prepared 
and prearranged a little to eat, much music, and many flowers. 
Here, too, were present several other parties of stylishly 
dressed, expensively garbed ladies. Here smartly dressed 
people congregated to see and to be seen by smartly dressed 
people. In truth it was an emporium of fashion. The service 
was faultless and etiquette was queen. 

After lunch, and after the party had seen and been seen, 
it departed by automobile for Belmont at two A. M. It was 
a gay, chattering throng. Robert, accompanied by Grace, 
acted as pacemaker the first twenty miles, after which he bid 
his guests adieu ’mid many felicities and good wishes. 

The following morning Robert reached his office at nine 
five. He looked jaded, almost as jaded as he did the morning 
following "The Feast of Belshazzar.” He was truly enervated, 
and he yawned audibly a half-score of times before he was 
seated at his desk. The world was drab. "The Knickerbocker” 
offices seemed to be a cheerless place. He had a headache—a 
bursting headache—a champagne headache. He was weary of 
work. He hated work. He hated the word "duty.” He re¬ 
garded it as an unmistakable misfortune that he was not a 
man of wealth and leisure. He denominated this a cruel world. 
Anyway no white man ought to be awakened so early as nine 
A. M. to go to work. He had had no breakfast, and he cared 
for none. He was nauseated and was dispirited. He had lost 
interest in his work as sport editor. It was now a tough old 
grind. Enthusiasm was gone—drudgery had come. Why 
should he be compelled to struggle along against the current in 
this fashion? Was he not a member of the Conkling family? 
At least he soon would be. Could he not, as a consequence, do 
as he pleased? Come when he pleased? Go when he pleased? 
Work when he pleased? He would certainly enjoy that sort 
of an arrangement. He decided to speak to Mr. Conkling 
about it. 

Mr. Conkling with a keen eye and an ominous frown had 
been watching Robert for some fifteen moments. He saw him 
yawn repeatedly. He, while sitting in his commodious office 
chair, thought of him as his son-in-law—the idea was revolt¬ 
ing. He regarded his listless attitude—he was filled with dis- 


A DINNER PARTY 


207 


gust. He noticed his dissipated countenance—the fires of hate 
at once were kindling. He thought of his hatred of work— 
he was stirred with bitterness. He remembered how inefficient 
the sport department of his paper had been—he was humili¬ 
ated, but this quickly changed to anger. In truth he knew 
that the sport department of “The Knickerbocker” was a joke, 
that the other cosmopolitan newspapers spoke of it slightingly 
and with ridicule. He knew too well that it lacked up-to-date¬ 
ness, aggressiveness and novelty. He also knew that the 
news had been stale, that the write-ups had been tame, that 
the reports had been inaccurate. All this now quickly coursed 
through Mr. Conkling’s mind. His nerves gave him the fidgets. 
He could endure it no longer. He could not control his 
thoughts or his feelings. He casually meandered over to 
where Robert was sitting. Robert was about to address him 
regarding his having a little more freedom, when Mr. Conkling 
said: 

“I noticed that you were late this morning.” 

“Yes, five minutes.” 

“If you are permitted to come five minutes late, why should 
not the rest of the employees have the same liberty? You 
simply nullify my system.” 

“I presumed that you would not be so exacting with a head 
of a department.” 

“Why not? Should they not set the example of punctu¬ 
ality ?” 

“It seems to me that from ten until four o’clock of intensive 
work is quite enough brain work for any master mind.” 

“I’ll close my offices before I’ll ever permit any such hours. 
All the employees would at once demand like hours, and I’ll 
not ‘stand for it.’ Every employee of ‘The Knickerbocker’ 
must be here when the clock strikes nine.” 

“I’ll make up the time.” 

“I don’t ask you to make up the time. I don’t want you to 
make up the time, but I believe that I have a perfect right to 
expect every member of my staff to be punctual. I myself 
didn’t feel like coming down this morning at nine, but I came 
simply for the reason that I ask nothing of my employees that 
I am not willing to do myself.” 

“I did not suppose that I would be placed in the same 
category as the janitor.” 

“The janitor has ambitions the same as you. He has feeling 


208 


THE LONGDENS 


the same as you. He has plans the same as you; and he has 
rights the same as you.” 

“I>11 be here when the clock strikes nine hereafter—if Im 
half dead I’ll be here,” answered Robert crabbedly. 

“Whenever you are half dead, you’ll do me an honor if 
you’ll remain at home. Here’s the whole matter in a nutshell; 

I must have a system; I certainly have a right to expect the 
enthusiastic help of my ten-thousand-dollar editors in my 
efforts to make that system as nearly perfect in its functioning 
as is possible; I expect nothing less, I ask nothing more.” 

“Very well.” 

“I know exactly what your trouble is, and why you were 
late this morning.” 

“What do you know*?” 

“I know that you were out until almost four o’clock this 
morning, drinking highballs and dissipating your energies. 
That’s exactly why you feel so bad this morning. It is not 
work, it is dissipation that makes you feel so stupid.” 

“How do you know what I did last night?” 

“I know. Don’t you think I know?” 

“Yes.” 

“I can tell you who were there. Robert, no one can stay 
out all night and work all day. The human machine simply 
will not stand the strain.” 

Robert hung his head and answered not. He was discom¬ 
fited, chagrined. Several employees were listening. Mr. Conk- 
kling wanted them to hear. That was one reason that he was 
delivering these chastising words semi-publicly. He con¬ 
tinued : 

“Another thing, Robert, your department is the poorest in 
‘The Knickerbocker’ offices.” 

“You are rather plain spoken.” 

“I expect service, very efficient service, too, of a fellow to 
whom I pay ten thousand dollars a year. This is not a kinder¬ 
garten or a lover’s lane, where high-priced gentlemen play 
hide-and-go-seek with the girls—it’s a place for work, intelli¬ 
gent work, effective, diligent work, I say.” 

“I’m doing my best.” 

“God pity your worst.” 

“You certainly expect a whole lot.” 

“No fellow can drink champagne and eat lunches at two 


A DINNER PARTY 


209 


A. M. and be ready for work at nine A. M. I expect my 
employees to retire not later than eleven o’clock.” 

“You did not employ me,” answered Robert undiplomati¬ 
cally. 

“Anyway, it seems that Pm paying you.” 

“I’ll take this matter up with Grace—I wish to know who 
my employer is.” 

Mr. Conkling, as we have said, was unusually conservative, 
courteous, even-tempered; however, in this instance his horses 
broke the hitch-rein and ran away with him. He had said more 
to “Belshazzar” than he intended; but this namesake of an 
Oriental king had so much and so often trodden upon his laws 
of order and system, that he became exasperated with the 
young spendthrift, and the safety fuse melted. 

He now hesitated: on one hand, he did not wish to em¬ 
barrass his daughter, on the other hand, he firmly and un¬ 
equivocally resolved that he would not retreat. He did not 
intend that such consummate impudence should go unrebuked; 
so he answered tartly: 

“I respect my daughter’s tastes, opinions and wishes in 
everything except the quality of the work that goes into 
‘The Knickerbocker.’ Here I am supreme, and I allow no 
human being, be he male or female, advertising manager or 
sport editor, to interfere with or thwart my purposes.” 

A young man was now waiting at Mr. Conkling’s elbow. He 
wished to see Robert. Mr. Conkling turned and recognized the 
young fellow as a collector for one of New York’s leading 
florists. He had in his hand what purported to be a bill. 
It was in truth, a bill of three figures and bordered on four. It 
was a part of the cost of the extravagance of last night. 
Mr. Conkling intuitively understood, and turned and walked 
away. Robert explained to the young man confidentially, after 
the editor had taken his leave: 

“Mr. Conkling is a crank—an implacable crank, if I must 
say it, even though he soon will be my father-in-law. Yes, 
he’s unbelievably exacting. I fear he’s some relation to Shy- 
lock, of whom you’ve probably heard a great deal. The point 
is simply this: private business is strictly forbidden during 
office hours, so I’ll be compelled to settle with you later.” 

“I shall and my boss will insist upon a settlement before 
sunset this evening,” answered the florist pointedly. 

“You certainly shall have your money before sunset.” 


210 


THE LONGrDENS 


The florist turned and hurried away, but before he reached 
the door, he met the caterer and one of the musicians, the 
mission of both of whom was the same as that of the florist. 
A few rods behind followed the haberdasher and the landlord, 
all moving aggressively forward in straight lines, with bills in 
hand, toward Mr. Robert Tadmore’s desk. They quickly lined 
up in front of the flambuoyant young spendthrift. Robert 
was truly embarrassed. Heretofore he had always been able to 
juggle and evade accounts of this character; but never before 
had he been besieged by a whole procession of creditors at 
one sitting; never before had he been attacked en masse. 
In chess the predicament would be styled “checkmated. Ex¬ 
cuses failed Robert. He was truly speechless. His counte¬ 
nance was ashen. His mind, owing to the dissipation of the 
preceding night, was not working. So he was nonplussed. 

Finally Mr. Conkling, hearing the noise of siiuffling feet and 
the symphony of many voices, came to his office door to 
ascertain what it was all about. His deep-seated dislike for 
young Tadmore was becoming more and more pronounced, 
and his countenance was always a perfect barometer of his 
likes and dislikes. Anyone could now read Mr. Conkling’s 
opinion of Robert Tadmore from a distance. He unconsciously 
muttered: 

“That hilarious spendthrift has never paid me a cent on that 
five hundred that he owes me, and still he pays more than a 
thousand dollars in a single evening for Sowers and bon bons 
and entertainment. He has a millionaire’s appetite and a 
struggling editor’s income.” 

Robert was now explaining to his creditors, and Mr. Con- 
klmg heard the explanation: 

“Gentlemen, I simply must not be annoyed with bills during 
office hours. Mr. Conkling is unremittingly opposed to it, 
and I agree that it certainly is disengaging. I shall see each 
of you personally after office hours.” 

“What are your office hours'?” queried the haberdasher. 

“From nine until five o’clock, sir,” answered Robert de¬ 
cisively. 

“I’ll be waiting for you outside the door,” interposed the 
landlord. 

“So will I,” agreed the musician. 

“That will be perfectly all right with me, but don’t bother 


A DINNER PARTY 211 

me any longer now—I have much work to do,” answered 
Robert waspishly. 

After the procession of creditors had retired, Robert ac¬ 
costed Dudley as he was passing: 

“Just a moment, Dudley.” 

“What is it, Robert?” 

“I need three hundred dollars—in fact, I must have it. I 
say that I want to borrow three hundred dollars right now.” 

“You haven’t paid back the three hundred that you bor¬ 
rowed in February.” 

“But I will—you know that I will. You also know that my 
expenses have been enormous.” 

“Yes, I know—I probably know too much.” 

“Are you doubting my integrity?” 

“No, but I was wondering why you had not paid back 
the three hundred as you promised.” 

“It seems to me that a schoolmate ought to help a school¬ 
mate without asking any questions.” 

“I thought you had some interest due on securities a month 
or two since.” 

“I did have but some inaccuracies, which required extra time, 
had to be straightened out.” 

“What do you want to do with the money?” 

“Now, Dudley, you’re getting impertinent.” 

“Right here’s the point, Robert: your pace is too swift for 
your income. You can’t afford it. Nobody can afford to 
expend sixty dollars a day when he’s earning only thirty.” 

“Now, Dudley, that’s none of your business.” 

“But it is my business. I have a perfect right to know 
what you’re going to do with my money, and I have a right to 
know how soon I’m going to get my money back.” 

“If it’ll be any solace to you, I’ll tell you that I owe some 
obligations.” 

“Obligations! Obligations! I have no outstanding obliga¬ 
tions.” 

“Of course not—you don’t mingle.” 

“Now, Robert, for the sake of old times, I’m going to loan 
you this money, although my better judgment tells me not to 
do it. I really need all the money that I have, but I guess 
I’ll let you have it. However, I shall expect you to pay it 
back within thirty days.” 

“I may pay it back Saturday.” 


212 


THE LONGDENS 


“I hope so, Robert, but I don’t expect it—I saw your line-up 
of creditors this morning, and I must say that it was not a 

it - 

was simply one of those unfortunate coincidences that happen 

to everyone once in a lifetime.” 

“Now, Robert, remember! I’ll have to have this money 
within thirty days without fiail, so you gpive me an order 
on Mr. Conkling for three hundred dollars due m thirty days. 

“I’ll do nothing of the sort. Am I a crook or a trickster 
or a ‘buncoer’ that you should ask or even hint at such a 

thing as an order on Mr. Conkling?” 

“Robert, I tell you I haven’t the money to spare. I fear 
you do not appreciate the fact that I am making a tre¬ 
mendous sacrifice to accommodate you.” + +w 

“I appreciate all of that—you’ve already told me that 
four times-but to whom would I go for a favor if not to a 
person whom I have known all my life 1 ? 

“I guess I’ll let you have it.” 

“I thank you. I’d like to have it now. 

Dudley reached for his pocketbook, took out a certificate 
for three hundred dollars, indorsed it, handed it to Robert, 
and indifferently passed on. Robert took it S ree ^J “ 
consigned it to his pocketbook, but no words of gratitude 

escaped his lips. .. 

That afternoon Robert wrote Grace as follows. 

“Dear Grace: , „ , .. , 

Your father has been ‘barnstorming’ all day, all because 
I was five minutes late this morning. I simply can t 
please him. He frankly told me that the sport depart¬ 
ment was unsatisfactory—the poorest in his paper. O 
course I don’t have to endure such insolence, and I m not 
going- to. He allows Dudley to come and go whensoever 
he pleases; but, someway, he has taken a ‘dislikin to 
me Have you any influence ? Or shall I resign. 

Love from 

Robert.” 


Grace seemed to be The Court of Appeals in this case, for 
she also received the following letter from her father m the 
same mail that she received the one from Robert: 


A DINNER PARTY 


213 


“Dear Grace: 

I am informed that you and Helen and several other 
budding collegians were the guests of Robert Tadmore last 
evening, that you stayed until two A. M., that you re¬ 
turned to Belmont by auto at that late hour. Now, Grace, 
I do not approve of this. In the first place it was indis¬ 
creet on your part, in the second place Mr. Tadmore can¬ 
not afford to finance such extravagant functions, and in 
the third place it interferes with the quality of Mr. Tad- 
more’s work. All day long he has been besieged by an 
unpleasing procession of creditors who were collecting 
for the prodigality of last evening. 

Personally I do not believe that young Tadmore has 
any money, except his salary and what he can borrow. 
So, Grace, your duty is plain; namely, to help him to con¬ 
serve instead of urging him to expend. Dudley Longden 
is worth a whole gross of Tadmores. 

From your 

Father.” 

Grace answered Robert as follows: 

“Dear Robert: 

I am writing papa very frankly this evening, but re¬ 
member this, Robert: papa is a perfect crank on system. 
He expects not only me, when I’m in the office, but every 
other employee to be on time all the time, because of the 
influence it may have upon the other employees. Besides, 
papa expects every department of his paper to measure 
up to the highest standard of excellence, and he is an 
Incurable. 

No, Robert, there is no hope for a reversal of his 
decision, if he thinks ‘The Knickerbocker’ has been com¬ 
promised in the least. His paper is the pride of his heart, 
and he expects everything in it to be of the very highest 
excellence. 

With regards from 
Grace.” 

Then Grace wrote her father as follows: 

“Dear papa: 

I’m certainly grieved to learn that you delight in 
‘picking’ at Robert. He is far superior to Dudley Long¬ 
den in both mentality and brilliancy; and you couldn’t 


214 


THE LONGDENS 


convince me otherwise in a thousand years. I couldnot 
like Dudley Longden in a whole lifetime of trying. W y } 
his clothes are disreputable—and his whiskers! and his 
hair! He’s a full-fledged Bolshevik. The lad even lacks 

animation and common sense. Robert is my choice, and it 
you wish to worry your daughter until she’s sick, just 
keep on chastising Robert for trivialities that are of no 
consequence. 

Truly, 

Grace.” 


XXV 


Grace and Her Father 

Graduation day had come and gone. Ten days since Grace 
and Robert had received their diplomas. Grace’s thoughts 
were now tinctured with sadness. She now fully realized that 
there would be no more ridiculous class plays, no more staging 
of The King’s Jesters, no more dramatizing of the modem 
suffragette, no more chafing-dish and fudge parties at Belmont, 
no more athletic meets, no more sorority tete-a-tetes—all these 
endearing occasions were forever gone, and the resultant was 
a depressing sadness. 

Grace was completely lost. She now had nothing to look 
forward to—her college days were ended. A new world con¬ 
fronted her. She approached it with dread and doubt. It 
was a real world, a cold, indifferent world, a world of the 
survival of the fittest. 

Grace was now functioning as her father’s private secretary. 
She was not there at her father’s request—it was her wish. 
She was sure that mingling with people would, in a large 
measure, atone for her loss of college friends and college 
pleasures. However, her father made it plain to her that she, 
if she wished to be his private secretary, must observe the 
same hours and the same rules as the other employees for 
the sake of discipline. His ideas of system and discipline 
must be rigidly respected; for in these he would accept no 
compromise. 

Helen Hunt, too, assisted her father in his jewelry store. 
She lived immediately across the street from the Conklings, 
and the two girls were inseparable. Each rode with the other 
to their offices and each accompanied the other back home 
again. One fine June morning Helen remarked as the two 
were en route to their work: 

“Dudley Longden seems to be a dependable sort of a 
fellow.” 

“That’s what papa says, but frankly, I can t like the boy. 
He’s too slouehy, too stingy, too parsimonious. He doesnt 

215 


216 THE LONGDENS 

do himself justice. He doesn’t spend enough money for 
clothes.” 

“I’ve often wondered why he didn’t dress better—does his 
salary forbid?” 

“Papa says that he now receives a hundred dollars a week. ’ 

“A miser, eh ? Boo! deliver me.” 

“If he should expend a dollar for a box of chocolates, he 
wouldn’t sleep for a week.” 

“I imagine that his father before him was stingy.”. 

“So papa says. The boy left home because his father 
wouldn’t give him any spending money.” 

“What is his father’s occupation?” 

“Farming.” 

“Nevertheless, the lad deserves considerable credit for his 
rapid promotions—isn’t he business manager of ‘The Knicker¬ 
bocker ?’ 

“Yes, I guess he is. Papa thinks that he’s a peach, but I 
can’t see anything but pumpkin. Robert Tadmore is my type 
of fellow.” 

“Oh, sure; Robert is a prince.” 

“Yes, he’s a swell fellow, and he has dash and style and 
breeziness.” 

“I imagine that Mr. Longden would be a monotonous per¬ 
son to live with.” 

“Oh, I guess he’s smart enough, but he isn’t brilliant enough. 
He knows enough, but he isn’t shrewd enough. He doesn’t 
seem to know how to ‘mix’—he doesn’t know how to mingle 
with people.” 

“That’s one of the fine arts. You mean, do you not, that 
he isn’t resourceful? That he isn’t versatile?” 

“That’s exactly it. Dudley’s a thinker, a student, a book¬ 
worm; while Robert is an entertainer.” 

“Most assuredly I’d stay with Mr. Tadmore.” 

“Papa wants me to ‘encourage’ Dudley, but I’d rather snub 
him. I’m simply not going to sacrifice my future to satisfy 
papa’s whimsical notions.” 

“There’s a freshness and a charm about Robert’s per¬ 
sonality that will keep a person young.” 

“Oh, I’m for Robert today, tomorrow, and the day after.” 

“Say! there’s a report current that Robert’s a bankrupt.” 

“There isn’t a word of truth in it, Helen. It—is—not—true. 
I’ll guess you that Dudley started that.” 


GRACE AND HER FATHER 217 


“I wonder.” 

They had now arrived at ‘The Knickerbocker’ offices. Grace 
alighted nimbly, and Helen waved and drove on. Everybody 
bowed and smiled at Grace as she entered her father’s office. 
Robert knowingly stepped over to Grace’s desk and queried: 

“Grace, how about a game of golf, and dinner at The 
Country Club this P. M.?” 

“De-lighted,” replied Grace vivaciously. 

“Maybe we can get away a little early,” suggested Robert. 

“Not until the clock strikes five,” interposed Mr. Conkling 
who had pretended to be working diligently; but, who, in 
truth, was listening diligently, and he continued with a smile, 
“and then Dudley and I will accompany you and do the course 
in sixty-six.” 

“Most people usually wait for an invitation,” replied Grace 
tartly. 

“Grace, pardon me, but such is not always necessary,” 
laughed the father. 

“Dudley, at least, is presuming a whole lot. He is over¬ 
stepping the lines of etiquette.” 

“But I invited him—he knows nothing about it as yet.” 

“But I don’t want him.” 

“But he’s going,” answered the father firmly. 

The situation was now growing embarrassing for Grace. 
Her father had rarely been so positive, heretofore. But she 
was resourceful, and she responded breezily: 

“Oh, I forgot. I have an engagement with my dressmaker 
this evening.” 

“Then Dudley and Robert and I shall have a game,” an¬ 
swered Mr. Conkling shrewdly for he was sure that Grace was 
playing ’possum. 

Robert glanced at Grace with questioning eyes and replied: 

“Very well.” 

What else could a white man say? Clearly he and Grace 
were checkmated. Naturally Grace was now peevish. She 
was exasperated with herself and out of sorts with her 
father. Mr. Conkling suddenly admonished: 

“Now, folks, we must get to work; in fact, we’ll have to 
place a ban on tete-a-tetes during office hours; you folks will 
completely destroy my system, and my discipline will resemble 
a washrag.” 


218 THE LONGDENS 

Accordingly, each settled down to work at his respective 
desk. 

The next morning at breakfast, Mr. Conkling smiled at 
Grace and said: 

“Well, Dudley beat Tadmore at golf.” 

“Accidents will happen,” snapped Grace ungraciously. 

“Dudley was taken into the lodge the other night, while 
Robert was blackballed.” 

“Nothing strange about that. I expect Dudley did the 
blackballing—he’s jealous of Robert, you know.” 

“No, I didn’t know, for Dudley wasn’t there. Besides 
Robert was blackballed fifteen times.” 

“That proves nothing—the blackballed had friends whom 
they wished to get in,” asserted Grace knowingly. 

“Robert’s a great entertainer,” asserted Mr. Conkling, re¬ 
sorting to strategy and blarney. 

“I know it,” replied Grace who was highly pleased. 

In a moment Mr. Conkling replied: 

“But Dudley is going to make the greatest man.” 

“There’s as much difference between those two boys as 
there is between a goat and a Kentucky thoroughbred, and 
it’s all in Robert’s favor.” 

“Robert has no money. He’s a pauper.’’ 

“He is not,” answered Grace with emphasis. 

“ An yway, he borrowed five hundred dollars of me in 
February, and he has not yet repaid me.” 

“He explained to me the reason why: the interest^)aying 
time on his securities was changed from semi-annually to 
annually. 

“Without his consent?” 

“Yes.” 

“I could tell you what I think of that story, but I do not 
wish to disillusion you. Take your father’s advice and 
beware.” 

“I’d just as soon cultivate the friendship of a ‘Wearie Willie’ 
as Dudley’s.” 

“Of course, Grace, it makes no difference to me in one 
sense; still, in another sense it does; I’m intensely interested 
in you, and I want to see you well married.” 

“Papa, I dislike the fact that you dislike Robert.” 

“If you knew as much about him as I do, you too would—” 

“Tell me what you know, papa, or don’t talk about it.” 


GRACE AND HER FATHER 


219 


“Don’t you, mamma, think that Dudley is preferable?” 

“With your consent, I’ll not take part in this discussion, 
papa,” answered the mother graciously. 

“Answer him, mamma—let’s settle this matter right now,” 
entreated Grace. 

“Yes, answer, Martha, which would be your choice?” queried 
the husband boldly, having no doubt as to the wife’s reply. 

“Frankly, folks, I believe that Dudley’s the more trust¬ 
worthy and the more dependable; and he, probably, would 
make a better husband for Grace; but I do wish that he had 
a little more style,” explained the mother warily. 

“That’s just it, mamma—that’s just it. Who wants to live 
with a ragman?” 

Mr. Conkling was now completely silenced. He had dar¬ 
ingly set the trap into which he himself had fallen. He had 
always talked freely regarding the two young men and their 
capabilities and the promises of their youth in his wife’s 
presence, and seemingly she had always agreed with him— 
at least she had not openly disagreed. However the husband 
realized that he had blundered and lost. He was naturally 
forced to the conclusion that a woman’s silence does not always 
mean agreement; especially when the lady is a docile, innocent, 
uncommunicative, unoffending, fragile little creature like his 
wife. He finally answered: 

“Very well, marry the chap; but remember this Grace, 
you will rue the day.” 

“Now, papa Conkling, pardon me; but I wouldn’t marry 
Dudley Longdon under any circumstance, even though the 
finest home on Fifth Avenue went with him. He’s not in 
my class. He’s not clever enough. He’s too frank, too easily 
read, too easily caught. What fun would there be in going 
turtle fishing? I wouldn’t go turtle fishing if the prize was a 
hundred dollars, but I’d go speckled-trout fishing for the 
pleasure of it. They are cunning, they are game, they are 
strategists, they are sly and artful and know how to finesse; 
and when you have caught one, you have something that you 
respect and prize, for you admire its heroism.’ 

“Anyway, Dudley’s big enough to be editor-in-chief of ‘The 
Knickerbocker’ some day, for I propose making him such. I 
think, too, that my judgment of the true worth of a man 
ought to be worth something.” 


220 THE LONGDENS 

“Then yon have decided that yon will not make Robert 
such?” 

“I have,” said her father. 

“Too big for the place?” 

“Yes, he thinks he is; bnt I’d rather you’d draw yonr own 
conclusions.” 

“I know your implication, and I’d like to know your 
reasons.” 

“Simply this: ‘The Knickerbocker’ would be defunct within 
twelve months with Mr. Tadmore in charge.” 

“I think, myself, that Dudley would be more dependable, 
more even-tempered, more moral; and I also think that he 
would make Grace a better and more satisfactory husband; but 
I do wish he was a little breezier and a little more stylish,” 
interposed the mother by way of explanation. 

“Robert Tadmore will never rise in ‘The Knickerbocker’ 
offices—he can’t fill the position creditably that he already has. 
In fact he’s highly unsatisfactory. He could never run a 
newspaper—he lacks ability, intellectual grasp, stick-to-it- 
iveness and the bigness of vision which are the necesssary 
characteristics of all great newspaper men. All Robert cares 
for is a good time.” 

“Well, papa, Robert doesn’t have to work for you,” asserted 
Grace tartly. 

“I know he doesn’t, Grace. I’ve often wondered why he 
stays and handicaps his future when he could earn so much 
more elsewhere. I’m sure that I don’t want to hold him back 
or keep him down,” replied the father shrewdly. 

“I’m so sorry that I asked you to give him a job.” 

“So am I, Grace.” 

“You’re so cranky and so particular.” 

“Didn’t you know that before you interceded for Robert for 
ten thousand a year?” 

Grace did not answer. Breakfast was finished. Father and 
daughter arose simultaneously, and each started to ‘The Knick¬ 
erbocker’ offices in different machines. Mr. Conkling arrived 
first. He found Anna at Dudley’s desk talking to him con¬ 
fidentially. Dudley and Anna had not been friends since the 
strike; in fact, Dudley had been leaving her severely alone. 
However, she was now trying to patch matters up. Dudley 
was now assistant editor. His salary was inviting, he would 
be a very desirable find. Anna was fully aware of this. A 


GRACE AND HER FATHER 


221 


spider is always sagacious when a fly is near its web. Anna 
was now smiling infectiously and questioning cunningly as 
Mr. Conkling entered: 

“Dudley, do you ever play croquet ?” 

“Very rarely.” 

“Come out this evening and I’ll give you a lesson in the 
science.” 

“I fear your father might be displeased at my playing in 
your yard,” answered Dudley sarcastically. 

“Why so?” 

“I’m not a member of the union, you know.” 

“Oh, that has all blown over, Dudley.” 

“But you might be mistaken. You know a wound may heal, 
but a scar always remains. You know that you told me once 
that your father would be angry if I ‘came in.’ ” 

“Now, Dudley, there’s no use in stirring up the past.” 

“I think that I have a perfect right to conclude that you’d 
rather play croquet with a union man.” 

“Now, Dudley, no one is going to compel you to come—I’ve 
invited you and that’s all that I’m going to do.” 

“I certainly thank you, Ajma, for your kindness and your 
consideration, and I’m sorry that I cannot accept on account 
of a previous engagement.” 

“Then don’t you dare to break an engagement with your 
barber or your bootblack for me,” replied Anna resentfully. 

“Maybe some other day, Anna, we can have a game of 
croquet,” answered Dudley in a conciliatory voice. 

“Yes, some day when you can’t think of any other place 
under the sun to go, you come around and we’ll have a game,” 
spoke Anna angrily as she stamped her foot violently. 

“Now, Anna, don’t be a spitfire.” 

“You’re nothing but a German spy and a German sympa¬ 
thizer anyway,” spoke Anna bitterly. 

“Why, Anna—” 

“I mean it. You ought to be drummed out of this country 
and never allowed to return.” 

Dudley was vexed, but he answered not. Anna, who was 
in one of her ugliest moods went directly to her desk and began 
the work of the day in a discourteous, combative frame of 
mind. Grace had gone on an errand for her father, who now 
called Dudley into his office, saying: 

“Pardon me, Dudley, Anna’s not the girl for you.” 


222 THE LONGDENS 

“I know it. I haven’t liked her since she got so pert about 
the union.” 

“Her father, you know is a radical. He’s a smarty and a 
dictator, and his daughter is just like him.” 

“I believe it.” 

“She will ‘work’ you if she can, but in my judgment she’d 
be a mighty unpleasant hussy to live with.” 

“There’s absolutely no danger of her ‘working’ me, Mr. 
Conkling.” 

“Intellectual men are usually weak in matters of love, and 
they usually choose a doll or a devil for a wife. I was trying 
to prevent this in your case.” 

Dudley smiled and answered: 

“I doubt that I come in that class, Mr. Conkling; however, 
I’m going to try to be fool-proof. You know I had a peep 
at Anna’s imperiousness last fall, and she never again can be a 
great friend of mine.” 

Mr. Conkling had been informed thrice by designing people 
that Dudley was pro-German in his feelings and thoughts if 
not in his acts, but he did not believe them. However he had 
been awaiting a good opportunity to question him along this 
line for ten days, but when he started he wanted plenty of time 
to finish, and no such time had yet arrived. He now had an 
opportunity, but he did not have time for he was expecting 
Grace to return any moment. He explained: 

“That’s all, Dudley. I’m interested in you. I don’t want 
you to make a mistake. Marriage is really a serious matter. 
It’s for life. Goodby.” 

“I certainly thank you for your interest in my behalf, Mr. 
Conkling,” answered Dudley as he optimistically went about 
his work. 


XXVI 


Dudley Is Invited 

It was two days until the Fourth of July. It was evening. 
Mr. Conkling had just entered the screened-in veranda of his 
home, where Grace and her mother were sitting, talking— 
talking styles, talking tailored suits—the ones which they saw 
that afternoon in one of the show windows—talking about this 
individual and that individual, talking about the dance of 
last evening, and the reception for tomorrow evening. Grace 
looked up innocently as her father entered and queried: 

“Papa, what’s annoying you? You’re so restless.” 

“Nothing, Grace, in particular.” 

“I can always tell when you’re worried.” 

“But I should like to have Dudley out to dinner on the 
Fourth.” 

“So that’s it—‘murder will out.’ ” 

“That’s it, but I didn’t know that it was worrying me.” 

“Papa, what are we going to do with you?” 

“Why?” 

“Have you gone mad over Dudley?” 

“Now, Grace, listen! When Dudley is giving his time, his 
vitality, and the very best years of his life to ‘The Knicker¬ 
bocker,’ should we not show him a little courtesy and consider¬ 
ation ?” 

“Sure, invite him! He will come with the seat and knees 
of his trousers bagging, his clothes unpressed, his collar 
soiled, his shoes unshined, and his whiskers flowing; so invite 
the lad and we’ll try to give him his first lesson in the art of 
being civilized.” 

“Maybe he’s not so bad, Grace—anyway let’s do our part.” 

“Papa, if you have any regard for my feelings and future 
happiness, you’ll not insist on this.” 

“The boy has been quite lonesome since his mother went 
home, I am sure; although he has never said a word. I can 
tell by his eyes—they’re so sad.” 

“I wish he had accompanied his mother.” 

223 


224 


THE LONGDENS 


“What would I have done?” 

“Failed, I suppose. If he should die or move away, we 
would immediately be given a ticket for the county farm,” 
answered Grace sarcastically. 

“No, I don’t think that, but I should miss him very, very 
much.” 

“I’d be ashamed to admit it.” 

“Will it inconvenience you any, Grace, should I invite 
Dudley for the Fourth? You could go with Mr. Tadmore as 
soon as dinner is over.” 

“With that understanding, I give my consent wholly for 
your sake, papa. What do you say, mamma?” queried the 
daughter with deference. 

“As a matter of courtesy, I think we ought to have him,” 
replied the mother considerately. 

“I’d like to have a dinner of at least five courses,” explained 
the father. 

“We can make it nine just as well, if you think it would 
put any additional ginger into Dudley’s system,” ridiculed the 
daughter. 

“You could have Mr. Tadmore, too, if you wish,” suggested 
the father. 

“Heh! Robert wouldn’t wipe his feet upon Dudley Long- 
den.” 

“I imagine that it wouldn’t be wise for him to attempt it.” 

“Robert would consider it a disgrace to be even asked to 
dine with Dudley.” 

“He has told you so much?” 

“Certainly. Why shouldn’t he? Robert’s a college graduate, 
a star athlete, the admiration of his professors, finished his 
course six months in advance of the prescribed time; but what 
is Dudley Longden? He’s a farmer boy without promise, 
without education, with no social standing.” 

“Now, Grace, before you soar too high and get lost among 
the larks, allow me to inform you that the majority of the 
big men of this country came from the lowly farm. It is 
on the farm that they learned to do hard, persistent work 
which is the forerunner of all positions of merit.” 

“Papa, you’d have your way, though you knew that you 
were wrong, so let’s have Dudley at dinner on July Fourth, 
and I’ll excuse myself as soon as the last course has been 
served.” 


DUDLEY IS INVITED 


225 


“Very well; that will be perfectly satisfactory to me. You 
and your mother can go driving with Mr. Tadmore, and Fll 
remain at home to entertain Dudley.” 

On the morrow Mr. Conkling went to his office unusually 
early. He found Dudley hard at work. He greeted him 
cordially, questioning pointedly: 

“Dudley, has anyone arrived yet, beside you?” 

“No, Mr. Conkling, and the night boys are gone.” 

“Dudley, I want you to take dinner with us on July Fourth 
at four o’clock sharp. It’s two hours early, I know, but four 
o’clock will enable us to have a round of golf before dark.” 

“I certainly thank you, Mr. Conkling.” 

“Another thing, Dudley, I have felt under obligations to 
you ever since you were hurt last fall, and I want to show my 
appreciation of your interest in my behalf in a substantial 
way.” 

“Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Conkling.” 

“You certainly were true-blue under very trying circum¬ 
stances, so I have arranged with Messrs. Simonds and Sons 
for a little haberdashery for you personally.” 

“No, Mr. Conkling, I have money. I can buy all such things 
that I need. I don’t want you to buy them for me.” 

“But, Dudley, this is not a matter of charity. I understand 
that; Messrs. Simonds and Sons understand that; you fully 
understand that; so why hesitate? I could have bought you 
a gold watch or a diamond ring, or a gold-mounted grip; but 
after thinking it over, I decided that clothes would make a 
more practical and a more useful present.” 

“I don’t want you to do this, Mr. Conkling—I have clothes 
enough.” 

“I understand that, Dudley, but these togs are paid for 
and they are waiting for you. If you don’t go after them, 
Simonds and Sons will be ahead just that much. They’re 
expecting you; and, of course, want you to have them.” 

“I never was very much for show.” 

“That’s probably where you are ‘lame.’ You must re¬ 
member, Dudley, that you have arisen to a position of promi¬ 
nence in my employ. You are on my official staff and rank 
next to me in prominence and influence, and I should like for 
you to dress in keeping with your position. If you are well 
dressed it will lend dignity to ‘The Knickerbocker’ and give it 


226 


THE LONGDENS 


an air of prosperity and excellence that can be attained in no 
other way.” 

“I dislike to see money wasted on finery. Em a great fel¬ 
low to save.” 

“Dudley, you have inherited at least one of your father's 
tendencies—be careful that you do not follow him too literally. 
Thrift is all right—it is a noble quality—but stinginess is a 
disease, cancerous in its influence upon the nobler qualities of 
man. Ninety per cent of mankind judge a person by the 
clothes that he wears, so naturally I wish to give my paper— 
the pride of my heart—dignity and eclat. So you see, Dudley, 
that my motive is purely selfish.” 

“Of course, Mr. Conkling, with that idea in view, I'll 
accept them.” 

“Now I've picked out these things for you and I want you to 
risk my judgment just this one time. I do not wish to be 
impertinent or prudish or priggish, but for the good .of the 
paper which we both love so much, allow me to insist this 
time, Dudley, that you risk my choice.” 

“I acquiesce, Mr. Conkling. I'm sure that you’d ask me 
to do nothing that would be compromising or improper.” 

“I certainly would not, Dudley. You go and try the clothes 
on forthwith, so, if they need alteration, it can be attended to 
at once. I want you to wear some of your new togs to my 
dinner on the Fourth.” 

“Who else will be there?” 

“No one but you and the family.” 

“I didn’t know but that you were trying to rush me into 
society.” 

‘No, Dudley, not that. I know you will pardon me if my 
request seems a little extraordinary, but remember this, clothes 
wield a mighty influence in the world of affairs. My staff, 
the staff of ‘The Knickerbocker,' is presumably more efficient 
than a corpse of college professors, and this is why I’m beg¬ 
ging you to be more precise in your dress. Now, Dudley, you 
will find six suits awaiting you at Messrs. Simonds and Sons, 
who have been instructed to carefully explain to you when and 
to what sort of functions it is proper to wear each and every 
suit. Perhaps you do not know it, but some harsh words 
have been directed at my editorial staff, not so much on account 
of the ability of its personnel as the clothes and the dress of its 
personnel. So I’m very human and a little selfish in this matter. 


DUDLEY IS INVITED 


227 


I wish, to show some people that my staff not only has brains, 
but that it has dignity, style and social excellence.” 

“HI help you, Mr. Conkling, although dress is foreign to my 
ambition.” 

“Pardon me again, Dudley, if I suggest that you have your 
hair cut every three weeks, your shoes shined daily, your face 
shaved every morning, and your clothes pressed weekly.” 

“Fm your most obedient servant, Mr. Conkling—nobody can 
beat me trying to follow your wishes.” 

“I thank you, Dudley, for your co-operation. As I said 
before, I do not wish to be a crank or a prig.” 

“Nothing that you have said has impressed me that way, 
Mr. Conkling.” 

“Perhaps you’d better go at once, Dudley, and have the 
clothes fitted.” 

Dudley made no answer, but started. He was not at all 
enthusiastic; in fact, he dreaded the ordeal; however, since 
Mr. Conkling wished it, he did not hesitate. While he was 
gone to the haberdasher, Mr. Conkling placed a modern book 
on etiquette on Dudley’s desk. He knew that Dudley would 
take the hint, for he was not only very susceptible, but he had 
that insatiable yearning to know and to garner. He knew, too, 
that Dudley would master every detail of the volume before he 
retired, with a thoroughness that was characteristic of him in 
everything that he undertook. 

That evening Grace and Robert went riding. Robert sud¬ 
denly and bluntly queried: 

“Grace, what are you going to do on the Fourth 1 ?” 

“Oh, papa thinks that he is in duty bound to have Dudley 
out to dinner.” 

“I can’t see what your father sees in the lad. He is 
neither brilliant nor educated. He was small potatoes at home, 
and he’s small potatoes in New York. No one is crazy about 
him save your father.” 

“Neither do I understand papa, but he seems to think that 
Dudley is a second James G. Blaine.” 

“If he knew him as I know him, he would change his mind.” 

“Anything dishonorable, Robert?” 

“Oh, I mustn’t talk about my schoolmate. The thing that 
nonpluses me is your father’s attitude toward me.” 

“You’ve probably done something to displease papa—some¬ 
thing that mars papa’s idea of a perfect day, something that 


228 THE LONGDENS 

has interfered with the proper functioning of his system and 
discipline.” 

“When are you going to marry me, Grace?” 

“Oh, don't mention it, Robert—I’m not nearly ready to settle 
down. I want to have a good time for at least five more 
years.” 

“Why, Grace Conkling! I simply can’t wait that long. ’ 

“Yes, you can. Let’s enjoy life. Let’s not allow the 
thoughts of the dull drudgery of marital life to cast a shadow 
over our happiness yet a while.” 

“Grace, let’s fix a time for the nuptials and make it soon— 
I love you so much.” 

“This is no time to tie ourselves up, Robert. This is the 
Fourth of July season when the whole American people de¬ 
clared that it was free, when everybody wants to be free.” 

“That being true, I’ll consent to a postponement of the 
subject until after the Fourth.” 

“You’re always kind, Robert.” 

“Then you cannot go driving on the Fourth?” 

“Not until after dinner is served.” 

“Then you can go at six?” 

“Yes.” 

“Very well, I shall call for you at six o’clock sharp. Perhaps 
we can have a game of golf before dark.” 

“Capital!” exclaimed Grace as she stopped and allowed 
Robert to alight at The Tavern. 

“I certainly thank you, Grace, for your kindness,” said Mr. 
Tadmore politely as Grace nodded and drove on. 


XXVII 


The Fourth of July 

The Fouth of July dawned bright and clear. The wee small 
boy, with bulging eyes and a bunch of Roman candles under 
his arm, was everywhere. Everybody was seemingly delighted 
that he lived in the land of the free and the home of the 
brave, except Grace Conkling who was not at all jubilant. 
To her the sky was drab. She regarded Dudley as a molly¬ 
coddle and a bore. She dreaded the painful monotony and the 
strained courtesies of the dinner hour. So, she, discontented 
and unhappy, meandered about the house and yard longing 
for a good time with no good time in sight. In truth, she 
would have gone to the office and worked, had this not been a 
legal holiday, on which occasions the office was always closed. 
She finally lounged in the hammock where she read short 
stories in the current magazines—reading indifferently most of 
the time, but with avidity when the story became unusually 
thrilling. 

Finally it was four o’clock. Dudley rang just as the clock 
struck the hour. Both Grace and her mother were in negligee 
attire. Mr. Conkling was comfortably resting in the hammock 
in the screened-in veranda. However, when he heard Dudley’s 
approaching footsteps, he hastily arose, quickly arranged his 
toilet, and greeted his employee at the door personally and 
cordially. 

Grace was all the while peeping from behind the draperies 
of a living-room window. The curiosity of woman is always 
paramount. Like Banquo’s ghost, it will not down. The 
feminine sex has an insatiable yearning to know, not from 
hearsay, but as an eye-witness. Grace’s alert eyes quickly 
compassed the situation. She was astonished, annoyed, wor¬ 
ried. As soon as she could believe her senses, she hastened 
upstairs, two steps at a bound; and vigorously nudged her 
mother, saying, very much out of breath: 

“Oh, mamma, he’s here.” 

“Well, what of it?” 

230 


230 


THE LONGDENS 


“Dudley has arrived, I say.” 

“Now, don’t be foolish, Grace, and don’t get snobbish. 
Understand me, you’re going to help papa and me entertain 
Dudley, and there’s to be no foolishness, no knowing smiles, 
no embarrassments.” 

“I have no other intention, mamma.” 

“Now, Grace, another thing: your countenance is a regular 
barometer of your thoughts, of your likes and your dislikes, 
and I want you to be careful.” 

“Now, mamma Conkling, I’m going to be as courteous and as 
polite as I know how, but you just ought to see—” 

“Now, don’t make fun—show a little breeding as well as a 
little charity for the less fortunate. Remember that Dudley 
Longden hasn’t had the opportunities that Robert has had.” 

“But you ought to see him—you would simply faint, I tell 
you.” 

“I don’t expect bi m to be dressed like a courtier.” 

“But he would certainly surprise the natives. He—” 

“That may be, Grace, but it’s just for that reason that I’m 
going out of my way to make him have a pleasant time. We 
will simply dispense with all etiquette, and have a plain, old- 
fashioned, country dinner; a dinner something like he has 
been accustomed to back home.” 

“Mamma, when you get through, I want to tell you some¬ 
thing. He—” 

“Just a moment, Grace, and then you may have the floor: 
I say we’ll dispense with all the courses and have a sort of a 
‘pitch-in’ dinner. Should he eat his bouillon with a tablespoon, 
you eat your bouillon with a tablespoon; should he eat his 
pie with a teaspoon, you eat your pie with a teaspoon—now, 
do you understand me, Grace?” 

“Why, mamma! you—” 

“I mean exactly what I say, Grace. This is one time when 
I’m going to insist upon certain courtesies for your father’s 
sake. The young man shall not be embarrassed in our home. 
Your father would never forgive us—he simply would never 
get over it.” 

“Now, mamma, who’s going to ridicule or embarrass him? 
If you—” 

“I’m merely cautioning you, Grace, lest you do something 
awful. You are so positive and so decided in your ways, and 
you have such a well-defined dislike for Dudley, that I want 


THE FOURTH OF JULY 


231 


you to be upon your guard. If be eats with his knife, you 
eat with your knife; if he ties his napkin about his neck, 
you follow his example; if he takes his fried chicken up in his 
fingers, you do the same; if he sops his bread in his gravy, 
or even in the gravy-boat, you do likewise; if he takes a whole 
glass of jelly as his legitimate helping, you take a whole glass 
of jelly; if he leaves his spoon in his coffee, you leave your 
spoon in your coffee; if he arises from his chair and reaches 
half-way across the table for something that he wants, you fol¬ 
low suit; if he pours his coffee out in his saucer, if he eats like 
a whirlwind, if he upsets his glass of water or his coffee upon 
the floor or the tablecloth, you do likewise.” 

“Why mamma Conkling, are you crazy?” 

“I mean exactly what I say, Grace. This is one time when 
I’m going to have my way absolutely.” 

“But, mamma, he’s dressed like a prince.” 

“Dressed like a prince?” 

“You ought to see him—he’s a regular Chesterfield.” 

“Are you making fun?” 

“He’s attired in a Tuxedo, the latest style and color.. His 
shoes shine like peeled onions. He wears the proper shirt, a 
fresh hair cut and a clean shave.” 

“Why, Grace, you dumbfound me.” 

“I’ve been trying to tell you this for more than ten minutes, 
but you’ve persistently blocked my every effort. I’m going 
to put on my new party dress and use the electric curler. It’ll 
probably make dinner thirty minutes late, but I’d feel like a 
‘boob’ in this attire.” 

“Maybe I, too, had better put on my best.” 

“You had; and you’d better, too, order dinner served in 
courses, if you don’t want to be embarrassed.” 

“Maybe we’d better use our best china.” 

“I would.” 

“And the new silver service?” 

“I would.” 

“Then hurry, Grace.” 

Accordingly the ladies forthwith began speeding up more 
pretentious preparations. Mr. Conkling finally became nerv¬ 
ous and impatient, and excused himself to laboriously climb 
the stairs to ascertain the trouble. The wife answered apolo¬ 
getically : 

“Well, Charles, I’m very sorry, but we looked at the clock 


232 


THE LONGDENS 


wrong. I grant you that it’s rude and inexcusable, but it can’t 
be helped now.” 

“Had Dudley been five minutes late, you and Grace never 
would have got through talking.” 

“I grant you, daddy, that you’re right—I take all the blame,” 
interposed Grace sweetly. 

“How long will it be,” questioned the husband with some 
impatience. 

“Probably ten minutes, daddy,” answered the daughter. 

“Don’t make it longer than that, sweetheart,” considerately 
answered the father whose idea of system and promptness had 
already received a fatal shock. 

Dinner was finally announced. Dudley seemed very much at 
home; he was very considerate, very pleasant, and unbe¬ 
lievably faultless in his etiquette. Everything that he did was 
precisely right. He did not overdo, he did not underdo, he was 
master of the situation always. He had drilled himself until he 
could pick up the proper spoon in the dark, whether it be 
orange, soup, coffee, bouillon, or tea; and he could tell an 
oyster fork from a salad fork, when blindfolded, by its posi¬ 
tion on the table. 

Mr. Conkling was delighted, and chuckled inwardly when he 
noticed the look of amazement that suffused the countenances 
of wife and daughter. Dudley, too, was an interesting con¬ 
versationalist. He had not traveled, but he had read a great 
deal. More than once Grace caught herself listening breath¬ 
lessly to the thrilling adventures of some mountain-climber, 
or to the exciting episodes in the life of some bear-hunter, or to 
a recital of Livingston’s search for the source of the Nile, or 
to the manners and customs in the Philippines or Cuba, or 
Argentine. Dudley seemed to have a deliberate, magnetic, 
vigorous, commanding, engaging way about him that was ir¬ 
resistible. He always left you under the impression that the 
well of knowledge was not exhausted, that like a swallow, he 
was only skimming along the surface. 

After dinner Grace accompanied Dudley to the screened-in 
veranda, where she bantered him for a game of golf, in spite 
of the fact that she already had an engagement with Robert 
for six o’clock. He replied: 

“I’m not an expert, but I guess it’s no disgrace to be beaten 
by a lady in these days of woman’s suffrage.” 

“It’s an honor, if you please, Mr. Longden.” 


THE FOURTH OF JULY 


233 


“I had not thought of it in that way, but I guess you're 
right.” 

“Yes, times have changed; now the female of the species is 
more aggressive and more daring and more elaborately plumed 
than the male, all of which is a reversal of the natural order 
of things.” 

“I grant it. I accept your challenge, and I'll call a taxi. 
Which do you choose, swords or pistols?” 

“A woman, you know always uses a rolling-pin—but you 
shall not order a taxi; we’ll go in my car and take papa along 
for umpire.” 

“Yes, your uncompromising response convinces me that 
times have changed. However, regarding this umpire; perhaps 
you have bribed him.” 

“It is quite true, I grant you, that papa is accustomed to 
selling out to the ‘highest bidder,’ but I wasn’t aware that it 
was generally known.” 

“Oh, yes, it’s common talk.” 

At this juncture Robert drove up in front of the palatial 
Conkling home, confidently alighted, walked breezily up the 
front walk, and pompously mounted the veranda steps. As 
soon as Grace saw him coming, she decided to parry the em¬ 
barrassment, which was sure to come, by meeting and greeting 
him on the lowest veranda step, explaining in a gentle voice: 

“Robert, things have not worked out as I expected—I’m 
sorry, but I’ll be compelled to cancel my engagement with 
you for this evening.” 

“Your father?” questioned Robert anxiously in a whisper. 

“3STo.” 

“Your mother?” 

“No.” 

“Dudley?” 

“No— a combination of circumstances which makes it impos¬ 
sible for me to go this evening. I’ll see you tomorrow— 
goodby.” 

What could Robert do? What could any white man do? 
There was certainly no reply to such a high-handed dismissal, 
except acquiescence and an humble retreat. Truly he was 
embarrassed, if not chagrined, as he said goodby, turned, re¬ 
traversed the front walk, and mounted into his machine. 
Naturally he was disappointed—this was his first reverse. 


234 THE LONGDENS 

Grace immediately returned to her company, explaining 
vivaciously: 

“Robert, too, wants a game of golf with me—it’s strange that 
everybody is itching to beat me at golf. I must he either a 
star or a boob.” 

“You know it’s more fun to beat some people than others.” 

“That's because?” 

“Because they are so vivacious, so eager to beat; so sweet, so 
cunning, so charming if they are beaten.” 

“I thank you—I trust your diagnosis is correct. Perhaps 
we’d better hasten to the links; it will be dark after a while.” 

“Allow me to call a taxi; anyway I wish to change my togs 
before I go to the links.” 

Grace wondered and muttered to herself: “What on earth? 
Has he got some more togs that he wishes to ‘air’?” She 
answered resourcefully: 

“I, too, wish to purchase some golf sticks; so papa and I 
will let you out at The Tavern as we go, and then we’ll pick 
you up as we come back—it will not take you long?” 

“Perhaps ten minutes.” 

“Then we’ll be at the golf links in twenty minutes.” 

The trio was soon speeding rapidly toward The Tavern, 
Dudley’s present rooming place. As he nimbly alighted, 
Grace tantalizingly admonished: 

“Now, remember, Sir Dudley: we’ll be back in ten minutes.” 

“I’ll be ready,” responded Dudley cordially. 

“You know that a woman has a right to take all the time 
she pleases in making her toilet, but a man simply has no 
rights.” 

“I accept the judgment of ‘The Court’ as just, and equitable, 
and final in these days of woman’s political and commercial 
ascendency.” 

“Goodby.” 

In five moments Dudley was waiting at the curb. He was 
accoutered in Palm Beach knickerbockers, and cap and shoes 
and hose to match. He certainly looked the part of a full¬ 
blown sport. He had only given himself a passing glance 
when he was in front of the mirror, lest his courage might 
fail him, lest his better judgment would not stand for the 
outfit. It required the cudgel of a powerful will to keep him 
from turning back. 

Grace was now in sight, on her return trip. She saw the 


THE FOURTH OF JULY 


235 


gentleman in knickerbockers at the curb, but she was in 
doubt—in doubt as to his identity. She could not believe that 
that sporty sport could be Dudley Longden; so she turned to 
her father and questioned: 

“That isn’t Mr. Longden at the curb, is it?” 

“It certainly is,” smiled Mir. Conkling as he replied. 

“Can it be possible? What’s come over the boy? Why, he 
has evolved—Darwin must be right,” eulogized Grace. 

“It seems that what we thought was dogfennel has 
blossomed, and that the bloom is a revelation—it’s an American 
beauty.” 

“I admit that I like him better than I thought I would. He’s 
really an interesting fellow.” 

Mr. Conkling unconsciously chuckled, but he deemed it 
the portion of wisdom to throw no bouquets, to allow Grace 
to reach her own conclusions in her own way; so the father 
made no answer. 

Grace dexterously stopped the machine at the curb for Dud¬ 
ley to enter, which he did nimbly and quickly, all the while 
bragging upon man’s punctuality and woman’s delinquencies. 
They were soon at the golf course. Mr. Tadmore was already 
there. He saw the Conkling machine drive up and lost no 
time in getting to it. He greeted Grace cordially as she 
alighted, but he did not seem to see Mr. Conkling or Dudley, 
inasmuch as he did not speak to either of them. However, Mr. 
Conkling was not caring anything about Robert Tadmore— 
he and Dudley hurriedly sought the place for teeing off. 
Robert addressed Grace boldly: 

“Shall we have a game?” 

“We shall not have a game—I have a previous engagement 
with papa and Mr. Longden.” 

“I beg your pardon; perhaps I might join your party it’s 
all in the family, you know.” 

“I would not think of asking papa’s or Mr. Longden’s con¬ 
sent.” 

“Oh, call him Dudley—he was your janitor last year,” re¬ 
plied Robert sarcastically. 

“Anyway he’s a delightful fellow.” 

“You should have seen him on his father’s farm in his 
faded overalls, and his ragged bandana—he was certainly a 
picture for “Puck,” a regular scarecrow.” 

Grace was sure that this was true, and it was a painful 


236 


THE LONGDENS 


suggestion to her exalted ideas of a well-groomed gentleman; 
but Robert was pursuing an undiplomatic course. No lady has 
ever yet been won in The States by a suitor who ridiculed one 
of her masculine friends. She answered pointedly: 

“Any disgrace about it?” 

“Nothing particularly elevating.” 

“I give Dudley lots of credit for what he has done for 
himself.” 

“He’s a German sympathizer. He wears a pin as a pledge 
that he’ll upset heaven and hell for the Kaiser.” 

“I don’t believe that, Robert Tadmore.” 

“Nevertheless, it is true, Grace Conkling.” 

“Knocking and mud-slinging is never very elevating, and 
they never get a person anywhere. Dudley has risen in spite 
of fearful, if not tearful odds, and he-deserves a lot of 
credit. You’ve never earned a cent.” 

“That sounds like one of your father’s tunes. Who—” 

“Now don’t you make fun of papa, or we’ll certainly mix. 
Papa and I are pals.” 

At this juncture Mr. Conkling holloaed: 

“Come on, Grace, if you’re ‘in’ on this game.” 

“Pardon me, Grace—I didn’t know that I was detaining 
you,” interposed Robert mock-courteously. 

“Goodby,” answered Grace indifferently, and then she mut¬ 
tered to herself; “anyway his head is as shallow as the brook in 
August—you can see and count all the minnows that swim 
therein.” 

Robert did not answer. He wheeled arrogantly upon his 
heels and walked defiantly away. He was now in an ugly 
frame of mind. This was the second time that his purposes 
had been thwarted, and he blamed Dudley wholly for both. He 
now itched to humiliate him, and if possible he was going to 
do it sooner or later. 

The game of golf progressed. Soon Grace and Dudley were 
strolling uphill and downhill over the greensward very much 
more interested in each other than the game of golf. The 
father, for reasons that are plain, adroitly worked to the other 
side of the golf course that the little poisoned arrows of Cupid 
might unmolested play to and fro. 

Dudley, as always, was kindly, thoughtful, and courteous. 
Grace was jubilant. Her spirits were effervescent. She was 
the victor in the game of golf. Naturally Dudley had so wished 


THE FOURTH OF JULY 


237 


it and had so planned it. He was too sagacious to beat one 
whose enthusiasm and ambition to beat was as boundless as the 
sea. He was shrewd enough to know if the female of the 
species is deadlier than the male, that her bitterness is more 
easily aroused and less easily placated, and that it is exceed¬ 
ingly hazardous for the male to beat a sweetheart at golf when 
the magnetic sputterings of love are only in the larvae state. 

The two lovers simpered and giggled infectiously as they 
neared the clubhouse in quest of lemonade. Grace was su¬ 
premely happy. An unexpected lover is usually delightful. 
Dudley was buoyantly optimistic—the rainbow of hope and 
love had now spanned his horizon. A new wish and a new 
ideal had come into his life; and, in truth, his stock had 
mounted to one hundred and two. 


xxvm 


A Crisis 

Near ten o’clock on the morning of July fifth, a federal 
officer entered “The Knickerbocker” offices. He went directly 
to Mr. Conkling’s office and inquired: 

“This is Mr. Conkling?” 

“Yes sir.” 

“My name is Adam Boyer,” and as he spoke he threw back 
his coat showing his badge of authority. Then he continued, 
“Does Dudley Longden work here?” 

“He’s assistant editor of ‘The Knickerbocker,’ ” responded Mr. 
Conkling decisively, if not proudly. 

“Where can I find the young man?” 

“He’s out in town attending to a few business matters— 
why?” 

“I have a warrant for his arrest.” 

“A warrant for his arrest? What has the boy done?” 

“Charges have been filed against him accusing him of being 
a German sympathizer.” 

“That’s a joke, Mr. Boyer. That boy’s as loyal as a 
Scotch Collie.” 

“Certainly not.” 

“Yes, but he is. You see, I know.” 

“Then why this warrant?” 

“Someone is playing a joke.” 

“They certainly don’t understand, then, that such a course 
might cause them a whole lot of trouble.” 

“Yes, someone has certainly been very unwise.” 

“I hardly know what to do—I never before had just such 
a case.” 

“I’ll vouch for the boy’s loyalty,” spoke Mr. Conkling 
positively. 

“I know that there’s absolutely no doubt about your loyalty, 
Mr. Conkling, and since he’s one of your associate editors, it 
would seem that his loyalty should go unquestioned.” 

“The boy’s all right, I tell you.” 

238 


A CRISIS 


239 


“And you say that you’ll vouch for his appearance should 
we want him after I report ?” 

“Most assuredly I will.” 

“I thank you. Then should we want Mr. Longden, I’ll 
simply ’phone you?” 

“Very good—I’ll be responsible for his appearance forth¬ 
with.” 

“Good day.” 

Grace had a bulging headache this morning, probably due 
to too much Fourth of July, and she was off duty. Dudley 
entered “The Knickerbocker” offices just as the federal marshal 
was passing out, but neither knew the other. Dudley at once 
approached Mr. Conkling’s office window to make his report, 
but his chief beckoned him inside. Mr. Conkling led the way 
into his private apartment, where he asked Dudley to be 
seated. He very much dreaded to tell Dudley about the rumors 
which had been afloat for sometime, but he finally summoned 
sufficient courage to proceed: 

“A federal officer was just here to see you.” 

“To see me?” 

“Yes, he has a warrant for your arrest.” 

“For what? On what ground?” 

“On the ground that you are a German sympathizer.” 

“Either Robert or Anna has done this.” 

“This may prove serious, Dudley. It will at best create a 
sentiment against you.” 

“I thought this was a free country.” 

“It is, but that doesn’t mean that everything is free. If 
everybody were free to do as he pleased, there could be no 
freedom—it would result in anarchy. Freedom means that you 
are free to do as you please as long as you do not abridge the 
freedom of someone else.” 

“Hasn’t every fellow a right to think as he pleases?” 

“No, Dudley, he hasn’t. Everybody should uphold the flag 
of the government under which he enjoys ‘life, liberty, and 

pursuit of happiness.’ ” . 

“But what if a person loves his Fatherland, more / 

“Then he should move to, and live, and rear his family in the 
Fatherland.” 

Dudley was temporarily silenced. .His eyes were downcast, 
but in a moment he proudly, lifted his head, saying. 

“Germany didn’t start this infernal war.” 


240 


THE LONGDENS 


“Who did ?” 

“England, of course.” 

“Not so. Germany had constructed foundations for her big 
guns inside of many of the German bams along the Belgian 
frontier months before war was declared; and when she 
started her drive for Paris, she simply lifted the barns, 
placed the big guns on their already-constructed cement foun¬ 
dations and began to shoot before anyone else was really aware 
that war was on.” 

‘‘You’re misinformed, Mr. Conkling. You don’t understand. 
Somebody has told you wrong. We took several German 
papers in Waterloo, and they placed an entirely different con¬ 
struction upon the beginning of the war. No, you’re wrong— 
it was England that started the war.” 

“Your papers blamed England wholly for the war?” 

“England and Russia.” 

“Now, Dudley, that’s German propaganda pure and simple. 
Germany and Germany alone was the cause of the World 
War. She was seeking war. She was itching for war. She 
wished to show the world her army. She wished to show the 
world that she could whip the world.” 

“Pardon me, Mr. Conkling, but you are mistaken. Germany 
was forced into the war. She did not want war—the Kaiser 
said so, and so did Hindenberg.” 

“Your Kaiser wanted to whip the world before the rest of 
the nations got ready. He wanted to make all of us bow to 
him and do as he said.” 

“I don’t believe a word of it. Besides there was no need 
of the United States getting into this war. If the foolish 
Americans had kept off the Lusitania, there would have been no 
war.” 

“Then everybody else ought to have got off the earth, and got 
out of Germany’s way whenever Germany said so? No one 
had any right on the high seas save Germany? Germany had a 
perfect right to anything that she wanted, and no one else had 
any rights ? It was all right for her to bluff and bulldoze the 
world?” 

“Yes, but a bitter war was raging between Germany and 
England. It was to be a fight to a finish. It was a matter 
of life and death. Why did the silly Americans try to compli¬ 
cate the tangle? England was jealous and calculating and 
selfish, and naturally she tried to draw The States into the 


A CRISIS 


241 


maelstrom of war—that was her scheme. Besides the United 
States furnished England all the ammunition and guns that she 
wanted—was that right? Was that humane and peace- 
producing ?” 

“Who furnished Spain with her munitions during the 
Spanish-American war?” 

“I couldn’t say.” 

“It was Germany.” 

“Who told you?” 

“It’s a matter of history, and, so far as I know, has never 
been denied by Germany herself.” 

“That’s the first time that I ever heard of that.” 

“Dudley Longden, Prussia is a barbarous, war-loving coun¬ 
try. She is responsible for the greatest and most fiendish war 
in history, and for what suffering and sorrow and tears, God 
only knows.” 

“Then England is an angel?” 

“She was in this instance. Why, England was not ex¬ 
pecting war; in fact, it was two years before England was 
ready for war, during which time more than a half-million 
of her sons were slaughtered, helplessly slaughtered by fiend¬ 
ish Germany. There was no crime too diabolical, no act too 
nefarious or too heinous for Germany to undertake and carry 
to completion. They have reminded me of ferocious beasts of 
the jungles.” 

“I thought England tried to enslave the colonies and tried 
to impress the American seamen.” 

“She did.” 

“Then you are a loyal American when you take England’s 
part ?” 

“I certainly am as between England and Germany. Besides, 
even though a man be sent to the penitentiary for murder, do 
you deny him the right of repentance?” 

“I never did like to see a lot of big chaps impose upon a 
little chap—German’s a little country.” 

“Dudley, really are you a German sympathizer?” 

“I guess I am, Mr. Conkling.” 

“This is the first unholy mixup that we’ve ever gotten into, 
Dudley; but I can’t see how I’m going to endure an un¬ 
patriotic American.” 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Conkling; I’m honest in my convictions.” 

Mr. Conkling hung his head as he responded: 


242 


THE LONGDENS 


“I never would have thought it, Dudley—what you now have 
and all that you hope to be, you owe to that flag there. It 
makes this country a safe place to live in; it makes this coun¬ 
try a safe place to die in.” 

“But couldn’t this country be wrong?” 

“Not this time, Dudley.” 

“I’ll do anything for you, Mr. Conkling, but give up my 
Germany.” 

“What are you going to do when the federal marshall calls 
for you?” 

“Do you think that he’ll call?” 

“I think he will.” 

Dudley hesitated. He was in a deep study. In a moment 
or so he answered: 

“I suppose that I’ll have to go with him—what else could 
I do?” 

“You could repent. You could become a patriotic American.” 

“My wire badge has the initials: ‘G. F.’ meaning, ‘Germany 
First.’ I have made an oath before highest heaven that I’ll 
protect The Fatherland against all the nations of earth; so I 
could not now forego my pledge, no difference what the cost.” 

“You’d sacrifice everything?” 

“I shall be true to The Fatherland; I’ll not forget my vow 
to The Fatherland whatever betides.” 

“You’re for Germany, right or wrong?” 

“Germany’s never wrong.” 

“Then I’ve been harboring and aiding an enemy of my coun¬ 
try and my flag?” 

“I don’t know, but this I do know: I’m for Germany 
First.” 

“Germany’s our enemy.” 

“Then I suppose I’m your enemy, Mr. Conkling.” 

The editor sighed. Big tears came into his eyes. His lips 
quivered. All his hopes had now been dashed down. Dudley 
had been the pride of his heart. His face was pallid. His 
soul was stirred by a mighty emotion. Pain was in every 
line of his countenance as he spoke almost inaudibly: 

“You may go—go about your work.” 

As he said this he made an emphatic gesture that could 
mean nothing less than: 

“Away with him! Away with him 1” 

Probably the greatest tragedy in human experience is the 


A CRISIS 


243 


sudden realization of a misplaced confidence, whether it be in 
a husband, or a wife, or a friend. That was what made Geth- 
semane so bitter and so trying. 


XXIX 


An Unhonored Check 

A warm friendship existed between Grace and Dudley; 
but Mr. Conkling was not jubilant. His sensibilities were 
stunned. He shut himself up in his office and his room, 
and refused to see anyone save on business of extreme im¬ 
portance. He was brooding over a misplaced confidence. He 
did not go driving—he was morose and unhappy. He had 
little to say, even to his family. The magnetic smile had left 
his countenance, and a look of sadness lingered about his eyes. 
In truth, Dudley’s name did not stir the editor’s soul with 
enthusiasm. Each tried to avoid the other. 

Grace was really in love with Dudley. He was not only a 
well-groomed young man, he was a well-educated young man. 
Robert was too shallow, too superficial. Too often she had 
taken soundings and found nothing but sand. 

Robert, of course, could not understand. He was grief- 
stricken because of Grace’s coolness and change of heart. He 
considered himself a much more desirable prize than Dudley, 
and naturally he was puzzled because of Grace’s indifference. 
Was he not a graduate of Belmont? Had he not been a star 
of the first magnitude in athletics? Socially did he not be¬ 
long to the select inner circle? True, Grace spoke to him 
when she met him, but the old-time cordiality was gone. She 
was not as frank, or as cordial, or as familiar, or as approach¬ 
able as she had been heretofore. 

He finally concluded that it must be his clothes. His ward¬ 
robe was not as complete as formerly. He was not as near 
up to date as when he was at Belmont. He was now not able 
to keep pace with the styles. He was no longer a ruling prince 
of fashion; whereas Dudley was strictly up to date. Some¬ 
thing must be done, but what could he do without money? 
He already had a champagne appetite and a home-brew in- 
come —^at would he have should he double his expenditure 
for clothes? 

He cogitated as follows: 


244 


AN UNHONORED CHECK 


245 


“I must keep pace no difference what the cost. I must 
not let Grace Conkling get away. Dudley now has a ‘breezy’ 
wardrobe, therefore I must have a ‘breezy’ wardrobe. Then 
perhaps I can win Grace back again. The only reason that 
she is now clinging to him instead of me is undeniably because 
of the clothes he wears; so my course is plain.” 

Accordingly Robert went to Messrs. Simonds and Sons, 
the most stylish haberdashers in New York. He bought 
prodigally—bought the best and the most expensive, the 
latest and the most striking, the flashiest and the most daring. 
When all his purchases had been made, he gave the haber¬ 
dashers a check for five hundred twenty-five dollars and 
quitted the place with a sigh of relief, if not buoyant satis¬ 
faction. His wardrobe had now been rejuvenated. It was 
complete. Self-confidence had been restored. 

In two or three days Dudley received a telephone communi¬ 
cation from Messrs. Simonds and Sons stating that the bank 
had refused to honor his check. This was like bumping into 
a stone wall unawares on a dark night. He naturally could 
not understand. He asked Mr. Conkling to excuse him a few 
moments. All the way to Simonds and Sons he wondered. 
He was sure that something was wrong, but he could not 
understand just what. He went directly to the office of the 
haberdashers and asked to see the unhonored check. He at 
once proclaimed it a forgery. It was true that they had a 
check for five hundred and twenty-five dollars payable to 
Simonds and Sons duly dated and duly signed by Dudley 
Longden; however he politely disowned it and indifferently 
left the store. That same afternoon a representative of the 
firm called upon Dudley, who in the course of the conversa¬ 
tion exclaimed: 

“You can go to my room and if you find any of the mer¬ 
chandise enumerated on this bill of sale, I’ll gladly pay you— 
I have money and I can and will pay for everything that I 
buy.” 

“You bought several suits of clothes of us a day or so before 
the Fourth of July.” 

“I did not buy them—Mr. Conkling bought them and paid 
for them.” 

“He certainly did not. He probably intended that you 
should pay for them.” 


246 


THE LONGDENS 


“Do you think that I would have signed a check for five- 
twenty-five, and then forgotten about it?” 

“Certainly something of that sort has happened. Yon got 
the clothes and here’s your check.” ? 

“Mr. Conkling doesn’t do things that way, and I don t do 
things that way.” 

“Isn’t Dudley Longden your name?” . 

“It is, but don’t you suppose that I know my signature?’ 

“If you didn’t sign this check, who did?” 

“How do I know ? That’s your business, and not mine.” 

“It looks as though I was going to be compelled to turn 
this over to an officer.” 

“I have no objection.” 

“What would your defense be?” 

“That I did not draw the check; that I did not get value 
received; that I personally have never bought anything in 
your store.” 

“Have you any idea as to who signed that check? 

“Yes, but I might be mistaken.” 

“You’ll tell me your suspicions?” 

“Why should I? I might be wrong.” 

“Isn’t Robert Tadmore a friend of yours?” 

“He formerly was, but not now.” 

“Has he bought any new clothes lately?” 

“You can tell by asking him.” 

“He works here?” 

“He does.” 

“Where will I find him?” 

“Ask someone else—I’d rather take no part in the affair.” 

The representative of Messrs. Simonds and Sons stepped 
briskly away, approaching a young lady near by—it was Anna 
—he asked her where he might find Mr. Tadmore. She di¬ 
rected him. He walked boldly up to Robert’s desk and ac¬ 
costed him: 

“Your name is Tadmore?” 

“It is.” 

“You bought several suits of clothes of Messrs. Simonds and 
Sons ?” 

“I did, and I paid for them.” 

“How?” 

“With the cash, of course.” 

“How much did the clothes amount to?” 


AN UNHONORED CHECK 


247 


“I don’t remember,” replied Robert, who was hedging. 

“Five hundred and twenty-five dollars.” 

“I don’t remember, I tell you.” 

“That was the amount all right, and you gave a check, too.” 

“You’re a fool.” 

“That remains to be seen.” 

“I’ll make your hungry carcass look like a sieve, if you 
dare to connect my name with such an unsavory affair. My 
reputation is about all that I possess, and for it I’ll fight to 
the bitter end.” 

“We’ll see—I’ll call an officer.” 

“Don’t you dare! You idiot!” 

This reply someway had the ring of sincerity and challenge 
in it, and it quite disarmed the mercantile representative, 
giving him a vacillating, undecided, irresolute bearing. But 
when he noticed that several of the clerks were watching him, 
he was embarrassed, and to relieve the embarrassment, he 
answered: 

“Ha, ha! So you mean to say that you’ll build a fire under 

me?” . . „ 

“I certainly will. Besides you’re bothering me during office 
hours which Mr. Conkling strictly forbids.” 

“You make this forgery good right now, and I’ll quit bother¬ 


ing you.” 

“Are you crazy?” # „ 

“No, but I’m very much on the trail of a crook. 

“Do you want me to mop the floor with you*?” 

“Take off Messrs. Simonds and Sons’ suit of clothes first.” 


“I paid for it.” 

“With a worthless check.” 


“I told you I paid the cash.” 

“We have no cash sale for anything like this amount, but we 
have a check sale for exactly this amount. Besides this suit 
that you have on, is the only one of the kind that we ever had. 

“That proves nothing.” , , , , 

“It doesn’t? The sales slip for this five hundred and 
twenty-five dollars has upon it this identical suit of clothes, 
and this sales slip shows that it was a ‘check’ sale. 

“As soon as I am at liberty, I’ll call at your office and either 
prove to you that you are wrong, or I’ll take up the check. 

“When, sir, will you be at liberty?” 

“Five o’clock.” 


248 


THE LONGDENS 


“I’ll agree to that, but if you fail, an officer will be after 
you, buddie.” 

Robert made no answer, but as soon as the representative 
had gone, Robert went over to Dudley’s desk and questioned 
in a very low voice: 

“What are you trying to do to me?” 

“Nothing that I know of—why?” 

“Didn’t you send that fellow to me?” 

“I did not.” 

“What was he doing so long at your desk?” 

“Trying to make me take up a forged check.” 

“Why? Did you have an overdraft?” 

“Had the bank cashed this forgery, I would have had an 
overdraft.” 

“Then the bank refused to cash it?” 

“It certainly did—why shouldn’t it? I didn’t have that 
much money there.” 

“And then you sighted him to me?” 

“No sir. He asked about you when I disclaimed the check, 
and I told him that he’d have to get his information of 
someone else.” 

“Now, I’ll confess to you that I signed that check. I 
needed the clothes and I was broke. I intended to tell you 
about it when I repaid you in two or three weeks.” 

“That’s certainly mighty poor business, Robert, I must 
say.” 

“It makes absolutely no difference how poor the business 
may be, you take up that check, or I’ll expose your past.” 

“Expose my past?” 

“Yes, when you used to steal things.” 

“Steal things?” 

“Books, and all such things.” 

“You just expose and be danged. You can’t bluff or scare 
me. I’ve already told Mr. Conkling that I took some books 
to read, and I told him why and when I did it; and I’ve paid 
Mjr. McDuffy twice as much as he asked for the use of the 
books. So, naturally, my conscience is clear, and you can do 
your dirtiest.” 

“That doesn’t change the fact that you were a thief.” 

“Do you really think that you can bluff me? If you do, 
proceed. You already owe me five hundred dollars, why don’t 
you pay it?” 


AN UNHONORED CHECK 


249 


“You’re doubting my integrity ?” 

“I’m reciting facts.” 

“You’ll not take that check up for the sake of our boyhood?” 

“No sir.” 

“You’d see me go to jail?” 

“It wouldn’t be my fault.” 

“It would be, if you’d allow me to go, wouldn’t it?” 

“I can’t see why I should interfere—a millionaire couldn’t 
keep you going.” 

“I never would have thought that you’d be so coldly indif¬ 
ferent, Dudley.” 

“Robert, what have you ever done for me?” 

“All that you have ever asked.” 

“True, I’ve asked no favors of you, but it’s also true that 
you’ve shown me none.” 

“Dudley, I would have done anything for you that you 
asked.” 

“Robert, I don’t believe that. In fact, I’m convinced that 
you antagonized me, and ridiculed me, and berated me, and 
belittled me every time that you’ve had an opportunity.” 

“So you want to see me humiliated?” 

“Did I say that?” 

“Your words imply as much.” 

“Wherein?” 

“At least your actions do, in that you refuse to help me by 
making good that check.” 

“It is true that I refuse to loan you any more money.” 

“Do you call your attitude friendly?” 

“At least, it’s a necessary attitude, if I do not wish to be 
a bankrupt.” 

“Dudley, you have revealed an ignoble trait this afternoon. 
I want nothing more to do with you. I supposed that member¬ 
ship in our little society at home and that pin there, that you 
wear, would always command the assistance of any member 
of the society when I was in trouble.” 

“Wbat do you mean, Judas? Don’t you know that I know 
that you are a traitor? That you have used this very pin and 
my membership in our little society against me? Why, 
you’re a snake and a toad. Seemingly, you’ve followed me, 
like a yellow jacket, and tried to do me harm.” 

Robert was now on the defensive. He was temporarily 
silenced. He knew not just what Dudley knew; but he did 


250 


THE LONGDENS 


know that all that Dudley had charged him with was true. 
However, as is usually the case, Robert continued to upbraid 
Dudley, that he might lead him away from the real issue by 
saying: 

“No, in the future, you need not speak to me; do not 
recognize me on the street; do not refer to me as your friend 
for it is not true; do not mention me as a comrade of your 
boyhood.” 

Robert was trying to lash himself into a fury. He was 
trying to get angry and incensed. He showed much feeling. 
His flashing eyes resembled dagger points, and he indignantly 
turned and walked away. He knew that the day of his humili¬ 
ation was near, and he concluded that bluff, and bunk, and 
boldness, and dissimulation were his only hope. 

The next morning Robert beckoned Grace to one side. She 
was not jubilant. She approached him with wondering eyes. 
Her love for him had shriveled like a grain of wheat that has 
been prematurely garnered. She had time and again turned 
her unerring telescopes upon the firmament of his intelligence 
and found nothing there. Clothes may be your passport into 
select society; but it takes more than these to win a wide¬ 
awake American girTs heart—it requires intelligence, versa¬ 
tility, resourcefulness, character and a disposition to make 
good. Robert spoke as follows: 

“Grace, Dudley is trying to humiliate me.” 

“How’s that?” 

“Accidentally, I don’t know how, I did it accidentally I say, 
I signed his name to a check.” 

“What check?” 

“A check that I gave Messrs. Simonds and Sons.” 

“How in the world did you happen to do that, Robert?” 

“I really don’t know, unless I was subconsciously thinking of 
Dudley at the time.” 

“What has he done, and what is he trying to do to you?” 

“He’s trying to humiliate me, I say.” 

“How?” 

“By calling an officer.” 

“I would not have thought that of Dudley.” 

“Anyway he has done it.” 

“I’ll speak to him about it.” 

“No, don’t do it, Grace—don’t get confidential with him; 
he’s no friend of yours: he said that he had another girl that 


AN UNHONORED CHECK 


251 


lie liked a whole lot better than you, but that he was compelled 
to go with you to please Mr. Conkling, that it was simply a 
proposition of holding his job and go with you, or lose his 
job if he did not go with you.” 

“The hyena! Why, it’s not so; it’s not—” 

“What! you’re not disputing my word are you 1 ?” 

“No, no! I was merely saying that what Dudley said about 
holding his job was not so.” 

“Pardon me. I misunderstood you. Every word of what 
I’ve told you is true. But what shall I do to extricate myself 
from this dilemma*?” 

“Why don’t you take up the check?” 

“I haven’t the money. I haven’t yet realized upon my 
securities.” 

“But you said that you signed Dudley’s name through mis¬ 
take.” 

“I did.” 

“But you now say that you have no money—what I want 
to know is: what would you have done, or rather what would 
have happened had you signed your own name instead of 
Dudley’s?” 

“It—it may—it may be—” 

“I can’t see but that the result would have been the same.” 

“Still that doesn’t change Dudley’s motives.” 

“No, that’s true—I think papa will let you have the money.” 

“Don’t ask him, Grace—I already owe your father five hun¬ 
dred dollars, and I wouldn’t think of asking him for another 
loan.” 

“What in the world do you do with your money, Robert? 
You must be a poor financier.” 

“Grace, I’m just too big-hearted: I give too much money to 
the poor, and the sick, and the unfortunate. I’ll just have to 
quit it.” 

Sympathy was now working like yeast in Grace’s heart. If 
you can thoroughly stir a young lady’s sympathies, your case 
is ninety per cent won. Robert pretended to be suffering 
intense anguish, and he moaned a little now and then, and 
he forced a few tears to flow. Grace’s feelings were soon 
thoroughly stirred, and she considerately replied: 

“I’d loan you the money, Robert, but I myself received a 
notice of a small overdraft yesterday morning.” 


252 


THE LONGDENS 


“Beastly luck! Fate, heaven and hell are arrayed against 
me,” exclaimed Robert in an exasperated voice. 

“Why not let the case go to trial—they couldn’t prove that 
you intentionally signed Dudley’s name.” 

“But the humiliation! Oh, Grace! How can I ever stand 
it? Oh, my! The awful humiliation of it!” 

Robert pretended to be wiping the tears away all through 
this tragical outburst of seemingly intense suffering. Grace 
was deeply moved and replied: 

“I’ll see you through, Robert.” 

“You’re always kind, Grace—always so kind.” 

“I never allow a friend of mine to be imposed upon.” 

“Dudley is, of late, so snobbish, so arrogant, and so inso¬ 
lent. I have always been for him until now. I’ve never said 
anything about his thievery and his many other shortcom¬ 
ings.” 

“Thievery?” 

“Yes, he broke into a store in Waterloo and pilfered con¬ 
tinually during a period of two years. I’ve never said any¬ 
thing to anybody about it, but I now feel that I’m under no 
obligations to keep quiet.” 

“The idea! Who would have thought it?” 

“It’s the gospel truth, Grace.” 

“Was he put in jail?” 

“No, he wasn’t. The father came to the boy’s rescue and 
fixed matters up someway, after which he drove Dudley from 
home.” 

“I never would have thought that of Dudley Longden.” 

Grace’s anger waxed as Robert persisted in sowing the 
seeds of doubt and distrust. Soon she was wavering in her 
choice between these two young men, but finally her sympathy 
for the defunct spendthrift, Robert’s misrepresentations, and 
Dudley’s pro-German proclivities caused her to decide against 
young Longden. It was thus that Grace’s and Dudley’s 
friendship now suffered a decisive slump. When Dudley asked 
her that evening to go motoring, she pleaded a previous en¬ 
gagement, and there was nothing but harshness and coldness 
and unkindness in her voice when she answered. Dudley, 
being both super-sensitive and independent, decided to de¬ 
liberately await developments, making no effort to see or 
speak to Grace during the balance of that and the following 
day. 


AN UNHONORED CHECK 


253 


The next afternoon Robert was arrested. He pleaded “not 
guilty,” and asked for a jury trial. He also requested of his 
attorney that he secure a feminine jury if possible. He was 
successful. He also asked for an immediate trial. It was 
granted. The attorneys paced to and fro with a stately, dig¬ 
nified tread. The judge rocked serenely back and forth in 
his big armchair. The jury was quickly passed and im¬ 
paneled. Naturally Robert was there. He walked about 
knowingly and presumptuously. He was dressed in the pink 
of fashion. Suddenly there was much chatter in the jury box. 
One lady juror whispered to her neighbor: 

“I hope that well-dressed young man there isn’t the 
prisoner.” 

“Yes, he is.” 

“Isn’t he swell?” 

“I’m convinced that he isn’t guilty,” responded the second 
lady enthusiastically. 

“It’s a case of spite-work, I tell you,” replied the first 
dispenser of justice. 

“I do believe that you’re right—why, that fellow could do 
no wrong.” 

“Just look at those clothes: he’s certainly a high-up.” 

“Do you know who’s trying to give him the ‘worst of it’ ?” 

“A young man by the name of Longden, I believe.” 

“It’s certainly all wrong for anybody to try to besmirch a 
noble young man like this. Why, it’s sinister, wicked, 
devilish.” 

“I’m going to vote for acquittal.” 

“I shall too, if I don’t change my mind.” 

“You’ll make a mistake if you don’t help acquit him. Why, 
that boy’s faultless—he’s as innocent as a rosebud. He couldn’t 
do wrong if he wanted to.” 

“I’d really pronounce him the perfect man.” 

“Well, I’m ready to vote—what are they fooling about?” 

“Oh, they’re fencing—these men are so worrisome.” 

“Who’s that young lady sitting at the side of the prisoner?” 

“That’s Miss Conkling—she’s seeing him through.” 

“I thought she was unduly interested—are they sweet¬ 
hearts?” 

“It’s generally presumed that they are engaged, but nobody 
knows for sure.” 

“Then it’s certainly a ‘frame-up’ or Miss Conkling would 
not so openly be for him.” 


254 


THE LONGDENS 


“Too, yon know, Mr. Tadmore has a high position with Miss 
Conkling’s father in ‘The Knickerbocker’ offices.” 

“No, I didn’t know that.” 

At this juncture the trial proceded, the witnesses were, ex¬ 
amined, the lawyers shrieked, the judge instructed, the jury 
deliberated. In five minutes Robert was acquitted on the 
ground that the forgery was a mistake—so the jury decided. 
The fact that Robert swore that he signed Dudley Longden’s 
name to the check unintentionally, someway appealed to the 
sense of equity and justice of this feminine jury. Accord¬ 
ingly Messrs. Simonds and Sons were losers, and Robert Tad- 
more was exonerated. Thus Robert, in his first mix-up 
with the law, was triumphant. It was true that he was born 
under a lucky star, but presumably every star eventually sets. 


XXX 


Dudley’s Diagnosis 

Dudley had been reading—reading until two o’clock in the 
morning during three consecutive nights. As usual he was 
determined to know the truth—the truth about the World War, 
the truth as to who was responsible for it and who would 
eventually be held accountable for it. 

That it was a dreadful, uncanny affair, he was sure. It 
was so dreadful and so uncanny that it haunted and depressed 
him day and night during the three days that he carried on 
his intensive investigation. It had cost sorrow immeasurable 
and treasure untold; but it was the forlorn, pitiable cries of 
the multitudes of hungry, helpless, fatherless children that 
made Dudley’s heart bleed unremittingly. 

He had read everything that he could find that at all re¬ 
lated to or had a bearing upon this unprecedented upheaval. 
He had not only studied the direct and palpable causes of 
the war, but the more remote and indirect ones—the ones 
which ramified and were deeply rooted in the jealousies of 
nations thirty, forty, and fifty years before the war started. 
Xo one could deny that Dudley was honest and conscientious 
even though he was wrong. His words always reflected his 
convictions. He did not resort to subterfuges; he did not 
compromise. He read both the English and the German ac¬ 
counts of the beginning of the war, and then he tried to 
decide who was right and who was wrong. He tried to ap¬ 
proach the matter with a free, unbiased judgment. He was 
seeking the truth, and it was the truth that he proposed to 
know even though “The Fatherland” was unquestionably 
proven the arch criminal of the ages, even though it was Ger¬ 
many that was chargeable with all the unhallowed suffering 
that was thrust upon the world one day in August, nineteen 
fourteen. 

During this period of intensive research, Dudley and Mr. 
Conkling scrupulously avoided each other. Each decided that, 
at least for the present, it was not wise that he meet or see 

255 


256 


THE LONGDENS 


the other. Each hoped that the break, which seemed inevitable, 
might be avoided, but each was likewise positive that the 
other was wrong. Thus each remained steadfast, resolutely 
praying that the other might see the truth of the whole affair 
before the break came. 

It was now near a week after Dudley and Mr. Conkling 
had their altercation that Dudley diffidently entered Mr. 
Conkling’s office. He had not shaved or changed his linen 
during these days of intensive and extensive research. He 
looked jaded and enervated, but his voice was musical and his 
words were kindly, when he addressed Grace and Mr. Conkling 
as he entered: 

“Good morning, folks.” 

Grace responded indifferently; Mr. Conkling answered more 
cordially: 

“A good morning to you, Dudley.” 

“Mr. Conkling, may I speak to you privately?” 

“Certainly,” replied the editor eagerly, half-rising from his 
chair. 

“Allow me to retire,” interposed Grace sarcastically. 

“That is quite unnecessary, Miss Grace. I have a personal 
matter which I wish to take up with your father, if you will 
be so kind as to pardon us,” explained Dudley graciously. 

“Oh, certainly,” answered Grace crabbedly. 

The two gentlemen entered Mr. Conkling’s private office. 
Each was very nervous. The situation was awkward, if not 
embarrassing. Neither had forgotten what was said one week 
since. Naturally each was under extreme tension. Mr. Con¬ 
kling was somewhat frustrated, but he spoke cordially while 
they were being seated: 

“Dudley, you look so haggard—are you ill?” 

“No, I think not; however I’ve been working intensely 
trying to decide who was responsible for the World War.” 

“May I ask what your findings were?” questioned Mr. Con¬ 
kling eagerly. 

“Mr. Conkling, I do not believe that you should blame me 
too severely for my prejudices.” 

“Possibly not,” answered Mr. Conkling coldy for he was 
sure that Dudley was not going to retract. 

“Mr. Conkling, my prejudices could not have been other¬ 
wise than what they were. My parents are German. I lived 
for eighteen years in a German community, where to be nn- 


DUDLEY’S DIAGNOSIS 


257 


patriotic to The Fatherland was considered a sin next to blas¬ 
phemy. Neither should our German community be blamed 
too severely—it was cut off from the rest of the world and 
knew less about the United States than it did about The 
Fatherland. Mr. Conkling, I did not maliciously intend to be 
unpatriotic, nor did any of my little community. We read 
German newspapers that were severely censored by the 
Kaiser’s group. We got a lopsided and incorrect view of the 
situation. Germany, as you probably know, was exceedingly 
cunning in her propaganda, and naturally we wanted to be¬ 
lieve, and we did believe that Germany was right. Personally 
I loved the Stars and Stripes before the war—I love the flag 
of any country when I’m convinced that it has high and holy 
motives—thus far I had found the motives of the United 
States very lofty in every war in which she has taken part. 
However, in this World War I was sure that Germany was 
right, and I thought it was my undisputed right, nay, my 
duty, to say so; and that is why I was so bold when I last 
talked with you.” 

“That all sounds perfectly natural, and in one sense, I pre¬ 
sume you were justified in your point of view.” 

“Again, in our little community a feeling of sharp antipathy 
toward The States and their flag crept into the minds and 
hearts of our people. This is how it happened: a stranger 
came into our midst, gradually worked his way into the con¬ 
fidence of our community, accepted the hospitality of our 
homes, pretended to be our friend, and then straightway left us 
and had the head of each family of our sect arrested and 
prosecuted to the limit of the law for making grape wine for 
its own use. The stranger was a prohibition officer.” 

“Any red-blooded individual would resent such a stealthy 
betrayal of his confidence.” 

“I think so.” 

“I now understand, Dudley, the reason for your prejudice 
in behalf of Germany, but what conclusion did you come to 
as regards who was responsible for the war?” 

“Primarily, Germany. Undeniably Germany wanted to try 
out and show ofl her army. She had a great machine—she 
wanted to see what it would and could do. Theodore Roose¬ 
velt eulogistically told the Kaiser that he had the flower of 
the earth in his army, and the Kaiser believed him. 

“It is barely possible that the Prussian bunch had a touch 


258 


THE LONGDENS 


of nightmare, and became unnecessarily alarmed in the sense 
that children are afraid of ghosts—alarmed lest the English- 
French-Russian alliance might unexpectedly swoop down upon 
them like a wolf from the fold and totally destroy them. But 
subsequent history has proved that it was, in fact, only a night¬ 
mare; for not one of the three nations was really prepared 
for war, all of which Germany ought to have known before 
she touched off the powder can. Really, it was two long, bitter, 
humiliating years before England was ready; Germany all but 
took Paris before France was ready; Russia never did get 
exactly ready; while the indisputable fact confronts us that 
Germany was the only nation that was really ready for war; 
therefore, the conclusion is forced upon us that Germany 
started it, and she will be and ought to be held accountable 
for it.” 

“What caused Germany to imagine that sooner or later 
England and France would attack her?” 

“As I said, it was probably a little stagefright without 
cause, probably due to over-suspiciousness, probably due to 
the aggressiveness and selfishness of England, probably due 
to the bitterness which had rankled in the heart of France since 
1870 , probably due to the alliance called The Entente which 
was no secret. England, too, you know, has always been 
jealous of her keenest competitor for world trade, and she 
has always striven to humble, if not destroy, her most powerful 
antagonist.” 

“Do you know that to be true?” 

“I believe the evidence is incontrovertible, Mr. Conkling.” 

“But wasn’t Germany domineering and insolent in her 
attitude toward the Parisians?” 

“She may have been, but it is also true that many, many 
Germans were openly insulted and bitterly assaulted on the 
streets of Paris just previous to the World War. I honestly 
believe that both nations were to blame for their insolent 
ways.” 

“But who started the war?” 

“Germany. She was wholly to blame with possibly a few 
mitigating circumstances.” 

“Isn’t that a terrible crime to be charged against any 
people ?” 

“I grant it.” 

“A river of widow’s tears, myriads of broken homes, count- 


DUDLEY’S DIAGNOSIS 


259 


less vacant chairs, millions of cripples, an appalling and ruth¬ 
less loss of human life—all these and more are the resultants 
of war; all these stagger the human conscience and make 
civilization a mockery.” 

“It is Germany’s unbelievable preparations that convict 
her.” 

“Dudley, I’m so glad that you have arrived at this con¬ 
clusion. Your previous convictions worried me exceedingly.” 

“They worried me, too, Mr. Conkling; but, based upon the 
evidence that I then had, I could arrive at no other conclusion. 
I know you will pardon my former prejudices. I am here to 
apologize. I certainly thank you for your indulgence, but I 
have bothered you quite enough, so I will go about my work. 
Goodby.” 

“Goodby, Dudley, I want you to know that I appreciate 
your courage and your frankness and your honesty.” 

Dudley quietly quitted the room, gave Grace only a passing 
glance as he hurried out, and soon he was again pounding his 
typewriter. He was glad—glad that his ordeal was over, glad 
that he had found the truth, glad that his pleasant relations 
with Mr. Conkling were again restored. 


XXXI 


Strategy 

The estrangement between Grace and Robert bad now been 
thoroughly patched up. Dudley was in the “offing” the 
kaleidoscope had turned revealing to Dudley a sky that was 
drab and a landscape that was dull and somber. He was 
disappointed, but not bitter; independent, but not arrogant. 

Mr. Conkling again regarded Dudley with favor, and he 
viewed the strained relations between Grace and Mr. Longden 
with regret. He considered and pondered the situation, 
during his leisure moments, long and much; but he made a 
confidant of no one. His thoughts and plans were as inscru¬ 
table as those of the sphinx. 

It was near one week later that Mr. Conkling arrived at 
his office one hour early. It was not an accident. It had been 
deliberately planned. He wished an uninterrupted conference 
with Dudley who, as usual, was working like a whirlwind when 
the editor arrived. The latter accosted him courteously: 

“Dudley, do you never stop—not even for a lunch*?” 

“Oh, yes, Mr. Conkling—a fellow has got to put a little coal 
in the engine at regular intervals,” rejoined Dudley with a 
smile. 

“Anyway, you were pounding that typewriter when I quit 
my office last evening, and you’re still pounding it when I 
arrive this morning.” 

Dudley smiled. Mr. Conkling continued: 

“Now, Dudley, I know that you will pardon my seeming 
boldness in saying or suggesting what Fm going to suggest to 
you.” 

Dudley’s eyes dilated. They beamed with expectation as 
the editor continued: 

“I realize that my subject is a delicate one, but I’m sure 
that you’ll not misinterpret my motive. I wish to assure 
you in advance that I have no ulterior purposes, neither do I 

wish to handicap you one jot or one tittle.” 

260 


STRATEGY 


261 


“I’ll not ascribe, Mr. Conkling, any bad motive to anything 
that you do or say.” 

“Dudley, it is relative to Grace and you.” Dudley colored 
perceptibly. The editor continued: “Frankly, I do not want 
her to be a friend of Mr. Tadmore. I do not approve of his 
morals or his spendthrift ways; in truth, I do not regard him 
as worthy of her friendship; much less do I regard him as 
worthy of being my son-in-law, however presumptuous that 
may sound.” 

“I agree with you, Mr. Conkling.” 

“Now, I do not wish to make you the cat’s paw, I do not 
wish to involve you in a situation that is embarrassing to 
say the least, but I should like to have your assistance.” 

“You certainly are entitled to any help that I’m able to 
render.” 

“Allow me to repeat, Dudley, before I proceed: I’m not 
offering my daughter in marriage; I’m not trying to hamper 
your free and untrammeled choice of any young lady with 
whom you may wish to affiliate; I do not wish to bind or 
hinder your present or your future, now or hereafter; but I 
do wish to rescue Grace from the machinations and flattery and 
misrepresentations of Robert Tadmore, whom I, rightfully I 
think, denominate “ Belshazzar.” I know more about “Bel¬ 
shazzar” than you may imagine, and I’m sorry to say that what 
I know is not at all complimentary.” 

“What do you want me to do, Mr. Conkling 1 ?” 

“Dudley, if my plans are at all fruitful, we’ll be compelled 
to resort to diplomacy, and perhaps strategy.” 

“I may need some schooling along this line, Mr. Conkling.” 

“Yes, you will, Dudley. You’re naturally a little lame in 
this sphere of human activity; nevertheless the practice of it is 
absolutely necessary to your highest success. You’re too 
frank, you’re not secretive enough, you’re motives are too 
readable. There are times when you should seem more indif¬ 
ferent, when you should be more calculating, more mercenary, 
more selfish—these are the salt and the pepper that season 
the sausage, and if you do not have them you become a prey 
to designing people. You ought to know how to set a trap 
and bait it—how to bait it often with chocolates and carna¬ 
tions and flattery and self-esteem.” 

“You are absolutely right, Mr. Conkling: the reason that I 
always got the flouncings at home, while my brother always 


262 


THE LOHGDEHS 


escaped, was that very thing—I was always too frank, too 
truthful, too outspoken, while my brother was more secretive, 
and more evasive, and never told all that he knew.” 

“Then your duty is plain; namely, cultivate secretiveness 
assiduously. Your future welfare depends upon it, and your 
success in life demands it—but pardon me if I change the 
subject and ask you if you know Helen Hunt.” 

“Yes, I know her fairly well.” 

“She lives immediately across the street from us, you know.” 

“I know.” 

“You like her?” 

“She seems to be a very delightful girl.” 

“I want you to call upon her frequently. How don’t ask 
me why. I have a reason which you will understand upon 
reflection.” 

“Obedience is the order of the day,” smiled Dudley. 

“I have arranged for an auto for you. It’s yours to use, 
however and whenever you see fit.” 

“You’re always kind, Mr. Conkling.” 

“Above all things, Dudley, cultivate Miss Hunt’s acquaint¬ 
ance and cultivate it assiduously.” 

“But what if she is cold and indifferent and frowns when I 
call?” 

“Take this tip from a connoisseur who courted young 
ladies for fifteen years, and thinks that he fully knows the 
game: never lose your nerve; never get excited and quit before 
the suit is won or lost; never stop making hay when the sun 
quits shining; and—I’ll tell you more—Helen Hunt will not 
frown upon you. I know; I haven’t lived a half a century for 
naught in this old world.” 

“I’d hate to cruise into a submerged sandbar or an un¬ 
chartered mountain peak.” 

“Ho danger, Dudley—don’t lose your nerve. Bolster up 
your courage; but be careful of one thing; don’t allow Helen 
to become infatuated.” 

“Infatuated ?” 

“Yes, you can prevent this by giving her to understand 
from the start that you have other feminine friends; that 
you are not concentrating, but scattering your affections; that 
your ideal has not yet come out of the clouds.” 

“I’m a failure as an actor.” 

“You’ll never learn younger. You take Helen motoring 


STRATEGY 


263 


frequently, and blow your born vigorously in front of Helen's 
home every time that you have the slightest reason for so 
doing." 

“I can do that all right." 

“Now, should Grace in the course of events invite you to a 
dinner party, you politely decline, pleading a previous en¬ 
gagement. However, when you meet her, address her cor¬ 
dially and courteously, but at the same time assume an attitude 
of dignity, if not modest independence. Observe the laws of 
etiquette most scrupulously, for the ladies rave over and seem 
to relish and really enjoy this ‘stuff’ that I call whitewash, 
or palaver. However, you must be upon your guard: don't 
allow yourself to be trapped. The women are passing shrewd, 
and they dissect and analyze and read the very secrets of your 
soul when you know it not. They seem to know intuitively. 
It must be an instinct—an instinct very much like that that 
impels the birds to go to the southland in the autumn and to 
the northland in the spring. This is what I'm trying to tell 
you in brief: be courteous always, but be formal and precise 
ever. Don't exchange confidences with anyone—you might be¬ 
tray yourself. Make your dinner call within the prescribed 
time, but make it formal and make it brief." 

“I fear that you’re going to get me killed and cremated." 

“Never mind about that—I’ll see that you get a respectable 
resting place." 

“That’s all that anyone could ask for," smiled Dudley. 

“Should you be invited to a second dinner party, I believe 
that it would be wise for you to courteously accept, and wear 
your best togs. After you arrive be as resourceful and charm¬ 
ing and engaging as your wits will permit." 

“I can do that naturally," laughed Dudley. 

“Then, gradually thaw out when in Grace's presence and 
be more genial, more communicative, more sociable, more 
enthusiastic." 

“I’ll do my best." 

“Thereafter you may continue to cultivate Grace’s friend¬ 
ship or not, as you may see fit. My one and only aim is to 
beat Mr. Tadmore and beat him decisively." 

At this juncture the office force commenced arriving by twos 
and by fours—it was nine o’clock. After a while Robert 
arrived. He was fifteen minutes late. He greeted everybody 
pompously and grandiloquently. A stranger would naturally 


264 


THE LONGDENS 


have regarded him as the owner and general manager. Dudley 
was alone at his desk now, presumably working, but, in truth, 
thinking—thinking over the job that Mr. Conkling had 
blocked out for him. Robert, with an arrogant swing and 
a haughty curl of the lips, walked over to where Dudley was 
working and thinking, saying: 

“You tried to ditch me, didn’t you?” 

“If I did, I didn’t know it.” 

“Let me tell you something, Dudley Longden; the fellow 
who turns down his best friend, always gets the worst of it.” 

“If I’m any judge, you’re not my best friend; however, if 
I’ve done one thing to you that was not right and proper, it 
was done unintentionally. If you refer to that check, I will 
swear in any court of the land that I did not know that you 
signed that check when I turned it down.” 

“But you could have easily fixed it afterwards so I would 
have been spared the humiliation and the disgrace of arrest. 
Every dog has his day, remember that, Sir Dudley.” 

“Then you had and still have the effrontery and the nerve 
to want me to borrow money to make good your forgery?” 

“I would have done the same for you.” 

“I don’t believe it; in fact, I know that you have not only 
been a traitor, but you have done all that you could to belittle 
me and defeat me.” 

“Anyway, Grace and I are going to be married.” 

“Personally, I have no objection.” 

“You know better than that. You know that you are simply 
aching and longing to make Grace Conkling your wife.” 

“You are certainly presuming a whole lot.” 

“Call it what you will; some things I know.” 

“Robert, you have bothered me long enough. I have work 
to do, and if you don’t go away, either I’ll call Mr. Conkling, 
or I’ll slug you one on the jaw—enough is enough, I tell you.” 

“Slung me on the jaw, eh?” 

Dudley made no answer, but he deliberately arose from his 
chair. Robert stepped back but continued effusively and 
pertly: 

“Oh, pardon me; pardon me, I say—I did not intend to 
bother the little Sunday school boy, but I’ll break the news to 
him while I’m here: ‘Grace Conkling is going to be Robert 
Tadmore’s wife.’ ” 

“I feel sorry for her—she isn’t getting very much.” 


STRATEGY 


265 


“She isn’t, eh? Remember this, Dudley Longden; Robert 
Tadmore never forgets an enemy. Henceforth his arrows will 
be poisoned.” 

“They have never been otherwise.” 

“You will rue the day; you will be sorry; you’ll wish you 
were back on that old clay farm again before you get through 
with Robert Tadmore.” 

“I’ve never yet been bluffed by you, and I scarcely think 
that I shall be now. If you’re going to do anything, now’s a 
good time.” 

“It seems that your injudicious course has made you 
grouchy, but I must be going; so, ta, ta!” 

“It’s high time—you act more like a fool than a man,” 
curtly answered Dudley who was glad to see the hyena go. 

He was tired of his supercilious ways. He reminded Dudley 
of a shriveled, sun-dried apricot. He had no purpose in life. 
He was simply drifting with the tide; he was nothing but drift¬ 
wood. Having a good time and spending money that he did 
not possess was his chiefest joy. Dudley was not in sympathy 
with him or his ambitions. Personally he regarded him as a 
salver, as a braggart, as a cad with no depth or profundity, as 
a disgusting loafer. 

It was now one week later. A flashy, new auto stood in 
front of Helen Hunt’s home. Dudley Longden, dressed in the 
pink of fashion, was calling upon her. He was, seemingly, 
pushing his suit vigorously. They attended the theater often, 
and took long drives into the country at eventide. In truth, 
Helen was charmed by Dudley’s strong, magnetic personality, 
and his substantial, thrifty ways. In fact, she had found 
herself unconsciously falling in love with Dudley from the very 
start, although he spoke often of promenading and going to 
the theater with other young ladies. However, this probably 
only added fuel to the fire. Undeniably he was in the danger 
zone, a zone that was mined with the most subtle and treach¬ 
erous forces of life. It was honey-combed with the T. N. T. of 
love which subtly plays to and fro, like lightning flashes 
between kindred spirits. 


XXXII 


Helen and Grace and Dudley and Julia 

Helen Hunt now considered Dudley Longden the finest fel¬ 
low this side of Mars. He was quiet, unobtrusive, intelligent. 
He was versatile, resourceful, engaging. He was always cheer¬ 
ful, and he was always welcome at the Hunt home. The en¬ 
tire family liked him because he was unpretentious, courteous 
and entertaining. 

The Hunt-Longden auto drives were now not only fre¬ 
quent, but were a matter of general speculation in that neigh¬ 
borhood. Besides, the theater parties continued without abate¬ 
ment. Dudley was really in love with Helen’s magnetic, tact¬ 
ful ways, but she was not plump enough to hypnotize his eye. 
Everybody usually loves his opposite—his opposite in 
temperament, his opposite in physical makeup, his opposite in 
intellectual grasp and texture. Helen was slender, fortunately 
or unfortunately—it was difficult now to say which. However, 
had she been stouter, Mr. Conkling’s strategy would have 
failed at the very outset. Dudley would have fallen hopelessly 
and helplessly in love with the jeweler’s daughter. 

In a few days Dudley received, as Mr. Conkling had pre¬ 
dicted with uncanny precision, an invitation from Grace to a 
dinner-party to be given at the Conkling home. Dudley, as 
he had been coached, politely declined, pleading a previous 
engagement. Grace ejaculated when she received his re¬ 
grets : 

“I didn’t want the smarty, anyway.” 

“Didn’t want whom?” queried the mother eagerly—she was 
not far distant. 

“Why, Dudley Longden.” 

“He has declined?” 

“Yes, and I’m glad of it. Anyway, I invited him wholly on 
papa’s account.” 

“Why then are you so angry?” 

“I’m angry because he has the effrontery and the audacity 
to decline my invitation. 


266 


HELEN, GRACE, DUDLEY AND JULIA 


267 


“Why, Grace, the poor fellow couldn’t help it, if he had a 
previous engagement.” 

“It isn’t so—it is false, I say. He has no previous engage¬ 
ment.” 

“You have positive knowledge?” 

“I have common sense enough to know that his engagements 
with Helen are not made one week in advance.” 

“How do you know that his engagement is with Helen?” 

“Because, I know.” 

“Then you think it a breach of etiquette to accept Helen’s 
invitations ?” 

“I think it is nerve to decline my invitation and give a 
reason that is not true.” 

“That’s his business, Grace.” 

“Who is this lad, Dudley Longden, anyway? What does he 
feed upon? What does he know and what does he wear that 
he should have such an exalted opinion of himself? He is 
nothing but an underling—an ordinary flunkey. He works for 
my father—is he not under some obligations to me? Is the 
daughter of his boss not entitled to some consideration, I say?” 

“Papa thinks that he could not print his paper without him.” 

“Oh, papa makes me mad—he’s dense, he’s obtuse. They 
work papa most beautifully—these hirelings do. Why, they 
pick his pockets in broad daylight while they tickle him under 
the chin.” 

“Why don’t you take Helen to town anymore?” 

“How do you know but that I do?” 

“I never hear her horn or see you together. 

“To be frank with you, I’ve cut her friendship—she’s no 
friend of mine now, and never has really been my friend.” 

“Why? What’s the trouble?” 

“She’s a traitor, that’s why. She knew full well that Dudley 
and I were friends, and had she been a friend of mine she 
would not have done her level best to alienate his affections.” 

“And she has succeeded?” 

“It seems that she has,” said Grace, bursting into tears. 

“Tut! tut! Grace, don’t cry.” 

“Anyway this is a mean trick that Helen has played upon 
me.” 

“You really believe that she has maliciously cultivated his 
friendship ?” 

“I absolutely know it.” 


268 


THE LONGDENS 


“I didn’t know that you and Helen were no longer friends.” 

“Friends! I wouldn’t haul her to town to get a doctor if her 
grandmother were dying.” 

“Tut, tut! Not so revengeful, Grace.” 

“People can’t wipe their feet on me but once.” 

“Dudley seems to like her.” 

“No, he doesn’t; I know absolutely that he doesn’t, but 
what’s the poor fellow going to do when the entire family 
spreads so much molasses around him and over him that he 
simply can’t get away ? His predicament is very similar to that 
of a fly that has been tangled in a spider’s web.” 

The days went swiftly by. In about a week Dudley called 
upon Grace. He was very formal, but very courteous. Grace 
was at first frigid, but after a while she thawed out. Grace 
pronounced him a very pleasant, and a very urbane caller, but 
when she, watching from behind the draperies, saw him go 
directly across the street to Helen’s, she was furious. The 
rumblings in the Conkling home resembled those of a game of 
ten pins. While Grace’s jealousy was fermenting, it was diffi¬ 
cult to tell whether the mixture was going to make wine or 
vinegar, but time would eventually tell. 

In ten days the tempest subsided. Grace then planned 
another dinner-party. Dudley was invited. He accepted. 
Grace was delighted. She was, in truth, jubilant, and she 
made sumptuous preparations. Dudley had, of late, developed 
considerable self-confidence. He had become inured to trying 
situations, and he was now a man unafraid. He was very 
much like a soldier upon the field of battle, who sooner or 
later falls asleep while the big guns roar and the big shells 
shriek and explode all about him. Dudley had assumed an air 
of indifference and fearlessness very much like the soldier boy, 
so many had the perplexing situations been since he left the 
parental home. 

Finally the hour of Grace’s dinner-party arrived. Dudley 
was there dressed like a prince. He was the center of attrac¬ 
tion. He was a complete master of the situation. Grace 
showed him special and unusual attention. However, Dudley 
did not allow himself to be condescending or patronizing. He 
was dignified and princely through it all. He was frank with¬ 
out being servile; he was kindly without being insincere. 

Grace boldly seated Dudley next to herself. Robert was not 
invited. Dudley was a good listener and an engaging con- 


HELEN, GRACE, DUDLEY AND JULIA 


269 


versationalist. Grace was delighted with his presence and 
charmed by his pleasing personality. That evening when the 
guests had departed, Grace reviewed the happenings of the 
evening, and she was pleased, for she was sure that she had 
made progress. 


Sadness hovered like a cowl over the Nansen mountain home. 
Julia was dead. Like a fragile, clinging vine that has been 
torn from its moorings by a ruthless storm, she had been laid 
low. Like a tender plant that has been nipped by the biting 
frosts, she had succumbed to the wintry winds of neglect, and 
ingratitude. Like a wild flower in a mountain ravine, she had 
been assailed by the cutting blasts from oft the snow fields of 
unrequitted love. She had suffered, she had heroically borne her 
sorrow, she had spoken no words of censure. To her, life with¬ 
out Robert Tadmore was meaningless. Her hope, her joy, her 
very existence centered in him. He was her ideal and her 
idol, but her idol was made of clay—it had proved untrue. 
However, her faith in him was unshaken, and she had uttered 
no words of condemnation, for she had never once doubted 
but that he was good and true and just. 

She was truly a lily of the mountain side, but the bloom 
had blasted before it matured. She was stricken while quietly 
sitting near the bank of her beloved mountain stream, stricken 
while watching and waiting for her faithless lover. If there 
were no other reason why there is an omnipotent God of 
justice in heaven, this instance is quite enough to convince any 
reasonable man. 

She was quietly and lovingly buried near the boulder that 
she had so thoroughly consecrated with her tears and her de¬ 
votion. Her simple parents were heartbroken. She was their 
all. A few of the crudely dressed, ignorant mountaineers 
gathered for the last sad rites. The mountains in their solemn 
and awful grandeur gravely looked down in mute silence; and 
the resplendent, setting sun lighted the open grave with its 
glory while innocence was being consigned to forgetfulness. 
The mountain stream had sung her to sleep with its lullaby, 
and the mountain winds will chant a miserere over the grave of 
her lifeless form while the centuries come and the centuries go. 


XXXIII 


Untangling the Skein 

One morning soon after the reconciliation, Grace approached 
Dudley’s desk at “The Knickerbocker” offices, saying: 

“I see, Dudley, that my dinner has not proved fatal.” 

“No, indeed, it has not proved fatal—it was, in fact, a life- 
saver,” chuckled Dudley. 

“I’m so glad that you enjoyed yourself.” 

“Yes, Grace, I certainly had a very pleasant evening.” 

“What time do you go to work, anyway?” 

“Eight o’clock.” 

“So early?” 

“Yes, I do more from eight to nine than I do from nine to 
twelve—I’m not bothered so much, you know.” 

“That’s a gentle hint for me to pass on?” 

“Not at all, Grace. Really, I’m wanting a rest now—my 
wits have been under a tension so long, that they’re crying 
out for a vacation.” 

‘'Let’s drive out to the golf links this evening.” 

“I’m heartily in favor; in fact, the suggestion gets my 
vote,” smiled Dudley. 

“I crave fresh air and lots of it, but I so much dislike to go 
alone.” 

“What’s the use?” 

“That’s exactly what I say—when young men are so kind 
and so chivalrous.” 

“When shall we go?” 

“As soon as office hours are over.” 

“Very well, that arrangement is capital.” 

“Then we’ll go at five in my car,” replied Grace as she 
gracefully about faced and deliberately approached her 
father’s office by catch-steps. 

It was now the balmy month of October, the most enchanting 
of the year. The falling, autumn leaves of gold and crimson; 
the purple haze along the horizon; the seductive charm of the 
smoky, lazy atmosphere: all these were conducive to love, and 

270 


UNTANGLING THE SKEIN 271 

conspired to make the life of mortal man one grand symphony 
of delight. 

At the appointed hour Grace and Dudley started toward the 
golf course. They had gone only a few blocks when Grace 
ejaculated ardently: 

“That rose, Dudley, in the lapel of your coat is so sweet— 
it has such a rich velvety color.” 

“Yes, it has, Grace,” he cleared his throat, hesitated and 
then continued with seeming effort, “I wish I were as rich in 
your favor.” 

Grace had sensed what was coming, but she acted as though 
she did not understand and tactfully exclaimed: 

“This is certainly an enchanting evening.” 

“So delightful! How charming it would be for a honey¬ 
moon.” 

Grace flinched. This sally was unexpected. In fact it 
frustrated her, and she was not only not prepared 
to answer, but she was afraid to answer. She was 
not ready to become a presiding queen, to “settle 
down”—she wished to be free a few years longer. She had 
seen too many girls of twenty-two settle down to a humdrum 
existence. She could not endure the humdrum—she did not 
like humdrum people; she was too vivacious to be humdrum 
and to do the humdrum. Of course, she wished to be the 
queen of a home after a while, after four or five years; but 
now she would rather be a part of the great, throbbing world 
of affairs. In truth, she disliked housekeeping and always 
had. There was too much monotony about it, too much drudg¬ 
ery. She most enjoyed excitement, the arena of competition, 
the clash of wits. However she did not wish to lose Dudley 
Longden: he was the dog-star in the constellation of her hopes. 
She would undeniably be profoundly grieved should Helen 
Hunt fall heir to his princely personality. To her it seemed 
to be a cloth of gold, finer than silk, more beautiful than a 
tapestry, more charming than “The Blue Boy.” It had been 
refined in the crucible of hard work and disappointment, it 
had come out of the melting-pot as pure as pure gold. The 
personality of any great man is not unlike the sunshine, mag¬ 
netic, subtle, life-giving, uplifting. 

This “honeymoon” suggestion of Dudley’s had induced 
silence. Not a word was spoken for some five moments. Each 


272 


THE LONGDENS 


was thinking, profoundly thinking; each was easting into the 
future, weighing and hoping, doubting and fearing. 

Soon they passed a modest little suburban home. It was 
not pretentious either in dimensions or architecture. Grace 
observed it casually and ejaculated enthusiastically: 

“Isn’t that a cozy little place? Isn’t it sweet? It’s a dream. 
It’s so neat, so charming.” 

“Shall I buy it, Grace?” questioned Dudley eagerly. 

“The old-fashioned flowers! The marigolds! The brown¬ 
eyed susans! The four-o’clocks! The ramblers! How per¬ 
fectly beautiful they are!” 

“They are yours for the asking, Grace—what do you say?” 

“Even the Holsteins are as sleek as—” 

“They, too, Grace,” interposed Dudley impatiently. 

“And the garden is laden with fruit.” 

“What is your answer, Grace? I’m waiting.” 

She, still pretending not to hear, continued: 

“Anyone ought to be happy in such a cozy little nest.” 

Dudley was now becoming desperate. He could not endure 
suspense; neither could he understand Grace’s quiet, unexcited 
ways. He himself was excited—yes, his very soul was in a 
tremor. He had asked her what he considered a momentous 
question, but she had remained serene and undisturbed. She 
was not only tactful and complacent, but she quietly if not 
cruelly, took advantage of his candor and credulity. She 
smiled feebly. He was serious and in distress and queried 
more pointedly and with more emphasis: 

“Grace Conkling, will you be my wife?” 

Grace answered evasively, But soberly: 

“Some sweet day, Dudley—some sweet day, I say.” 

“That’s too indefinite, Grace—why not now?” 

“Oh, Dudley, we’re too young—too young to marry. Let’s 
be lovers— marriage makes people old and grouchy.” 

“You consider marriage a blight?” 

“I fear that it generally is.” 

“Grace, you are wrong.” 

“I can’t see it any other way.” 

“I consider marriage a hallowed state; the home, an earthly 
paradise; the family, one of the ideals of the Creator. It is 
the foundation of the nation, and the keystone of the church.” 

“Dudley, don’t get so serious; I have no idea of trying to 


UNTANGLING THE SKEIN 


273 


overturn the institution—I merely wish to defer the ceremony 
in our ease a few short years.” 

“Grace, you will not he my wife?” 

“I will some day, Dudley dear, but not now.” 

Dudley hung his head. He was sorely disappointed. He 
was strangely affected, and his position was delicate, if not 
awkward. He did not know whether his suit was viewed 
with favor or disfavor. He was constitutionally sensitive. In 
a moment he soberly, but courageously, answered: 

“Then I presume a round of golf is next.” 

“Yes, Dudley dear, and a lemonade. It is my treat—I 
will pay.” 

“Do you take your lemonade before or after golf?” 

“Before, if you please, Sir Dudley.” 

“If you will remain seated, I will fetch it to you.” 

“Very well, dearie, you’re always kind.” 

Dudley started. His head was bowed. Grace had thrown 
a bomb into the camp of his hopes, and a scare into his heart. 
He now had reached the conclusion that she did not love him 
as he loved her, else she would more eagerly accept him, and 
talk more about the present and less about five years hence. 

While Dudley was in quest of Grace’s lemonade, Robert ac¬ 
cidentally, but pompously, passed the Conkling machine. 
Someway, he knew intuitively that he was near it, and he 
looked up quickly and eagerly, and saw Grace complacently 
looking about. He hurriedly approached her, saying: 

“Stranded or forsaken, Grace?” 

“Neither, Robert.” 

“Can I be of any assistance?” 

“None whatever—I’m simply waiting until Dudley returns 
with a lemonade.” 

“What has come between you and me, Grace?” 

“Nothing that I know of, Robert.” 

“You’re so cool—we were such good friends a few days 
since.” 

“Maybe it’s your imagination, and maybe it’s just my way.” 

“But you’re cordial with Dudley—are you and Dudley 
engaged?” 

“Now, Robert, that isn’t a fair question—that’s impertinent; 
that’s discourteous; that’s very impolite.” 

“Then, will you be my wife?” 

“No.” 


274 


THE LONGDENS 


“Why?” 

“Because, Robert, you have wasted your opportunities; 
because your personality is too weak.” 

“Personality ?” 

“Yes, the atmosphere that environs every person. Person¬ 
ality, you know, is the sum of the thoughts and acts of a life¬ 
time.” 

“Then my personality ought to be charming?” 

“It lacks substance. A strong personality is impossible 
without toil—arduous, persistent, cheerful, hopeful toil— 
something you’ve never done.” 

“You used to think I was all right.” 

“You’re all right, yet, superficially. You know how to 
spend money lavishly, you know how to say 'soft things’ to the 
girls, you know how to entertain royally; but when a young 
lady chooses a husband for the remainder of her natural 
life, she wants a red-blooded man, a man who has toiled 
and failed and striven and triumphed, a man who has a per¬ 
sonality that has strength, a man that inspires confidence.” 

“Then you have no confidence in me?” 

“Frankly, Robert, I haven’t.” 

“Your frankness staggers me.” 

“Robert, I think that I had just as well be frank with 
you. I can’t see any use in pussy-footing longer. Robert, I 
have no confidence in your morals, no confidence in your 
ability to ‘make good,’ no confidence in your ability to take 
care of me and provide for me.” 

“I presumed that your father would provide.” 

“No, Robert, not so long as I’m able to work. I’m too 
proud to permit anything like that.” 

“You’re undeniably a peculiar girl—you’re an oddity, I 
say.” 

“I’d certainly consider you a mollycoddle, should you or 
anyone else attempt to live on my father’s bounty, should you 
or anyone else attempt to camp out under my father’s plum 
trees. Shame on such a man! A man of hay would be a 
credit to that sort of a husband, and he wouldn’t be so pro¬ 
voking.” 

“You’re not up to date, Grace—it’s the style nowadays 
to allow the father-in-law to provide—did you not know that?” 

“It’ll not be the style at my house, Robert, when I marry the 
pride of my heart. My husband and I shall blaze our own 


UNTANGLING THE SKEIN 


275 


way, and earn our own bread and butter—Fm not afraid to 
work. I consider it no disgrace.” 

“Yes, and the Four Hundred will drop you from its lists.” 

“If the Four Hundred is so snobbish as to frown upon the 
person who works, I want to be dropped from its lists. Per¬ 
sonally, I respect the boy or girl, the man or woman who 
works, and Fm not afraid of being dropped if I work a 
little myself.” 

“May I Hope, Grace, if I settle down?” 

“No, Robert, it is too late to hope, too late to settle down. 
The morning of life is gone—it has been wasted—it will soon 
be time for lunch.” 

“Just give me one chance, Grace—please do.” 

“Quoth the raven, ‘never more/ You’re too late, Robert— 
I have no time to start a training-camp at this late date.” 

“But, Grace, I did not know what you expected.” 

“You should have known. Robert, there are probably lots 
of girls whom you would like, lots of girls who would like you, 
but I’ve decisively concluded that you’re not my Lochinvar.” 

“You’ve accepted my hospitality through four long years.” 

“True, but that does not bind me for life.” 

“You’ve cost me immeasurably.” 

“Robert, I confess to you that your fine clothes fascinated 
my fancy, that your personal appearance captivated my soul, 
and caused me to place a higher value upon you than your 
true worth would justify; however, I am glad that we have 
discovered our mistake before it was too late. We could never 
be happy—your personality is too weak; your purposes in 
life are too voluptuous—I could not even respect you, much 
less love you.” 

“You must be looking for an angel.” 

“No; but I expect to marry a man whom I’m not ashamed 
of, a man whose character has been forged and tempered at 
the anvil of hard knocks, a man who is not afraid to work 
until he triumphs.” 

“A fellow something like Dudley?” 

“Not necessarily.” 

“Is there absolutely no hope for me, Grace?” 

“There’s absolutely no hope for you, Robert.” 

Robert immediately and abruptly turned and walked away. 
He was humiliated, chagrined, grief-stricken. He was now 
face to face with two great facts: first, that a bankrupt spend- 


276 


THE LONGDENS 


thrift is not only friendless, but helpless; second, that clothes 
may he desirable bait in the fish pond of society, but they never 
insure a catch—it takes something more than these; it takes 
a personality that has been ennobled by the refining fires 
of toil and persistence and self-sacrifice. 

While the conversation of Grace and Robert was in progress, 
Dudley was halted on his return trip by Helen Hunt. Helen 
was always vivacious, charming, and mischievous. When she 
saw Dudley coming toward her with the lemonades, she shouted 
in glee: 

“Oh, thanks, Dudley—how very kind of you. I always was 
fond of lemonade.” 

“I knew it—that's exactly why I brought it to you,” 
answered Dudley who undeniably was equal to the situation 
and did not propose to be outwitted. 

He magnanimously offered one of the lemonades to Helen 
who pretended that she was going to take it, but did not. 
Dudley questioned: 

“Now, what’s the trouble, Helen ?” 

“Nothing, but I don’t care for lemonade today.” 

“After I’ve gone to all this trouble?” 

“It is a shame, I know, after you’ve gone to so much 
trouble.” 

“Now, Helen, don’t be bashful.” 

“I’ll drink both of them in a moment, if you keep on; 
even if the other girl does become offended.” 

“You couldn’t be held accountable for that. Come on, now, 
and drink, or I’ll be tempted to call you a—” 

“A flapper.” 

“I didn’t say it.” 

“Dudley Longden, I was just wondering what had happened 
to you—I haven’t seen you for one long week.” 

“Oh, I have been so busy, you know.” 

“Yes, I know,” smiled Helen with a knowing twinkle in her 
eye. 

“You’ve been well and happy, I presume.” 

“Oh yes.” 

“And you’re as good at golf as ever?” 

“I beat papa ten up and three to go last evening.” 

“Great! Fine! Superlative!” 

“Say, Dudley, we’re going to have a little dinner-party at 
our house tomorrow evening, and we’d be glad to have you.” 


UNTANGLING THE SKEIN 


277 


“At what hour, Helen ?” 

“Six o’clock, or thereabout.” 

“I certainly thank you.” 

“You will come?” 

Dudley hesitated a second or so and then answered en¬ 
thusiastically : 

“Certainly I will come.” 

“Very well, we’ll expect you. Goodby.” 

“Goodby, Helen.” 

“Be mighty careful, Dudley, that you don’t imbibe too 
much lemonade—it might be spiked,” and Helen smiled. 

“The prohibition officers are looking after that,” laughed 
Dudley severely as he hurriedly passed on. 


XXXIV 


“All’s Well that Ends Well” 

Grace was now becoming very impatient. She bad wished a 
dozen times that she had accompanied Dudley. She upbraided 
herself for being so retiring. However Dudley finally arrived 
at the Conkling machine. He was perspiring freely. Grace 
questioned petulantly: 

“Where have you been, Dudley Longden, and what have 
you been doing ?” 

“Well, to be frank with you, Grace, the lemons were not 
quite ripe, and I decided to wait until they matured. 

Grace did not smile. She considered the joke very crude. 
In truth she was very serious as she queried: 

“Who was that young lady to whom you were talking?” 

“What young lady?” 

“That young lady that button-holed you just around the 
corner of the clubhouse.” 

“Helen.” 

“Helen Hunt?” 

“Yes.” 

“That’s who I thought the lady was—I could just get a peep 
at one of you and then the other as you moved to and fro. 
You must have had an interesting time.” 

“She invited me to dinner for tomorrow evening.” 

“The audacity! Did you accept?” 

“What else could I do?” 

“What else could you do? Do you always accept? Don’t 
you ever have a previous engagement?” 

“Yes, sometimes.” 

“Don’t you know that you’re usually not wanted, even 
though you are invited?” 

“I hadn’t thought of that. Is that true?” 

“None of these men ever think—they’re seemingly very 

obtuse.” . „ 

“Maybe, then, I’d better go and ask Helen if she meant it, 
suggested Dudley soberly as he started away. 


ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 283 

Grace colored as she divined hi's meaning and answered 
evasively: 

“I never had such bad luck at golf—” 

“How was that, Grace? What did you say?” interrupted 
Dudley anxiously. 

“I say, Dudley, that I never had such good luck at golf 
in all my life.” 

“I thank you.” 

The End 












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